Move On
by DeniseSB
Summary: Maddison—How and why they began and ended—the NY story. Lots of flashbacks to Mark/Addison/Derek as kids, in college, med school, and residency. Appearances by Carolyn & the Shepherd sisters, Savvy, Archer, Sam, Naomi, Richard, Adele, & Charlene (Peds nurse). Story complete. Will post 1 chapter per day. 16 chapters. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I make no claim to any part of Grey's Anatomy (except the role of devoted fan) and will make no profit from any part of this story. Most of the characters mentioned in this story belong to Shondaland, American Broadcasting Corporation, and any other corporate entity that has a stake in Grey's Anatomy-and I cheerfully surrender any and all claims of exclusivity to the few original characters who exist for the sake of furthering the plot. No copyright infringement whatsoever is intended, and in the unlikely event that anyone makes any money from this story, I waive all rights to any share of the funds.

Many thanks to Shonda Rimes for creating Grey's Anatomy, to the talented cast, staff, and crew who help her realize her vision, and to ABC for making it available on the public airwaves.

**Author Notes:**

This story is completely written with 16 chapters. I will be posting at least one chapter per day until the story is completely posted.

Given that this is the story of Addison and Mark's affair, you can assume that there is sex. There are no PWP chapters (Sorry! ), but lots of references to their sexual relationship. Chapters with explicit—but not graphic-sexual activity have notices at the beginning of those chapters.

Some of the sexual activity includes **very mild** BDSM (for example, spanking and role-play) along the lines suggested by the writers on _Gray's Anatomy_. If this doesn't suit your tastes, I suggest you look at other fanfics.

This is the story of Addison and Mark's affair. At the time they start the affair, neither one of them is in a very good place in terms of his/her relationship with Derek, so there is lots of Derek-bashing. These comments are not meant to be this author's definitive take on his character. (Yes, Diane, this note is for you.)

To follow the customs of the _Grey's Anatomy_ universe, where every episode is given a song title, I've given each chapter as well as the story itself a song title. All songs chosen were written by Stephen Sondheim, either as a lyricist alone or as both lyricist and composer. (Yes, I know Marc Cherry did it first on _Desperate Housewives_, but I still think that you're going to steal, why not steal from the best? [Uh, you know I mean Sondheim and not Marc Cherry, right?])

Feedback, complimentary or otherwise, is always extravagantly welcome.

For those of you who stick around, I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I have had in writing it.

R.I.P. Mark Everett Sloan

**Move On**

Something Just Broke

Chapter 1

"Addison?" yelled Mark as he walked into his condo with four bags of groceries, relishing the feeling that there was someone there who cared to know when he arrived. Even weeks earlier, the old Mark Sloan would have snarked mercilessly at anyone who would have predicted that he would be feeling this way. But the Mark Sloan of two days ago was not the Mark Sloan of today. A Yankees onesie and a calendar with January 18, 2007 circled in bright red were proof of that.

_The new Mark Sloan was determined that the next eight months were going to be as comfortable as possible for Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd, the mother of his baby. With this goal in mind, he canceled their standard weekly grocery delivery (not much besides coffee, milk, Addison's green juice, and a few other staples since they usually ate out) in favor of shopping himself for Addison's favorite foods. _

_Once he arrived at Gristedes, however, he realized that, other than a basic healthy diet, he didn't know much about what Addison should be eating, now that she was eating for two. He stopped a visibly pregnant woman pushing a toddler in her shopping cart to ask for advice, but that didn't help. As soon as she found out that Addison was only a few weeks pregnant, she patted him sympathetically on the arm and told him it didn't matter what he brought home because his wife was probably going to throw it up anyway. Then she advised him to stock up on saltines, ginger ale, and prenatal vitamins and leave the rest to whatever his wife felt she could handle on a given day. _

_Saltines and ginger ale didn't sound like a particularly healthy diet, but he dutifully put the items in his cart. Then, admittedly at a disadvantage because he had very little knowledge of how to cook any of Addison's favorite dishes, he began roaming_ _the aisles for anything he thought she might like that didn't involve real cooking._ _ A stop at the deli counter for cold cuts led to a conversation with a teenaged clerk who'd heard that pregnant women eat weird things like pickles and ice cream. Mark scornfully raised an eyebrow at such stereotypical advice, but then reflected that stereotypes often have some foundation in truth. And it wasn't as if he and Addison would be forced to eat the damned things together, anyway. Suppressing an urge to gag, Mark picked out several flavors of Ben & Jerry's he thought Addison might enjoy (passing over the Chubby Hubby containers, vaguely annoyed at the implication contained in their title)_ _and three types of __pickle_._ After taking another quick run around the store for stuff they could put together without cooking and impulsively grabbing a bunch of Gerbera daisies next to the cash register just before taking out his wallet, Mark strutted home to show off his purchases. _

_At least, he hoped he would be able to show off his purchases when he got home, because Mark was clueless as to Addison's whereabouts. When he'd gone to pick her up at the end of her shift, the nurses told him she'd left sometime around mid-morning and wasn't expected to return. He'd been annoyed that she hadn't told him her plans, but he shook it off. After all, she had a lot to do with a baby on the way. Maybe she'd gone shopping for baby clothes. No—maybe she'd gone shopping for maternity clothes. Mark grinned at the thought of Addison in maternity clothes. By the time he reached the block that the condo was on, his strut had turned into such a swagger that some passing tourists wondered whether he was a celebrity they should have been able to recognize._

A thump from the bedroom after he'd announced his arrival let him know that Addison was home. That settled, Mark proceeded to the kitchen, raising his voice to give Addison an immodest running commentary on what he'd bought and why he'd chosen each item as he unpacked it, stopping short when the daisies were the only item left. At first surprised that Addison hadn't yet come out to see what he'd been yammering about, he laughed at himself for thinking that she would be interested in a grocery show. He filled Steuben crystal vase three-quarters full and arranged the daisies in it before heading to the bedroom, glad that he'd be able to surprise her with at least one of his purchases.

**divider – divider - divider**

Addison jerked into consciousness at the sound of Mark's voice, inadvertently sending an almost empty tissue box next to her crashing onto the floor. Panicked, she peered fuzzily at the clock radio, cursing under her breath when she saw the time: 6:17 p.m. Today of all days, why did Mark have to be home so early? Why couldn't there have been an emergency surgery or a nurse taken to a bar for some drinks and a quickie? Why today?

She was not ready. Crying the afternoon away in bed had not prepared her for this. She needed more time. Time for what, she wasn't sure, but she knew that she needed more time.

Last night's dinner had been the final straw. She'd been of two minds before that damned dinner. As long as she'd kept the news of the pregnancy to herself, she could afford to indulge her fantasies. Much to her surprise, she'd discovered that she was delighted to be pregnant. She had let herself imagine what life would be like as an expectant mother and a new mother, finally getting to know from her own experience rather than from listening to the stories of her patients what pregnancy and childbirth felt like. Thinking about her own baby had been a vastly different and infinitely more joyful experience than thinking about the babies she dealt with at work—but when she had tried to fill in the rest of the picture, the devoted husband and father, her imagination had faltered. No matter how hard she'd tried, she hadn't able to picture Mark in that role. Devoted husband? Hah! They'd been together less than a week when he'd had a quickie in an on-call room with that sloe-eyed nurse in Oncology that he didn't know she knew about. Devoted father? He'd paid for three abortions that she knew of over the years. There was no way possible he could have been happy to find out she was yet another "accident" in the string of women he'd knocked up!

Except—

**divider – divider - divider**

_Addison had waited over a week before she told Mark the news because she was both loathe to give up her fantasies and anxious to convince herself that there was a chance Mark might be willing to try on the possibility of marriage and fatherhood. Stranger things had happened, she'd told herself-although she would have been hard pressed for an answer if someone had asked her for an example._ _However, her intuition—or maybe it was just her common sense-was less than gentle about pointing out exactly how unrealistic those fantasies were, and she knew it. Given that there was no way, just no way whatsoever that she was going to have a baby on her own, she was prepared to tell him that she didn't need his money, but that he would at least owe her moral support when she went for the damned procedure._

_She delivered the news that she was pregnant calmly, just as she wanted to; there was no sense in letting her _agita _show when Mark would be likely to provide enough drama for the both of them. But he didn't react the way she'd anticipated. At first stunned at the news, he simply walked out without speaking—but returned shortly thereafter with one of those ridiculous Anne Geddes baby calendars with her due date circled in red. He was so tender with her that evening, so solicitous, that she dared to let go of her nervousness and allowed herself to feel the first stirrings of tentative happiness over the news._

_But oh, that dinner the following night! To celebrate the news, Mark insisted that they dress up in formalwear, and then took her out to her favorite restaurant, Per Se. Addison, in her supremely elegant Pamela Dennis satin gown, and Mark, in his classic Hugo Boss tuxedo,__were admittedly more than slightly overdressed, but Mark's explanation to their waiter got them the best seats in the house and complimentary desserts. After a dinner that included _tilapia en papillote_ and (only one glass each) of Dom Perignon, he surprised her with tickets to the upcoming Balanchine gala at Lincoln Center—an event she knew he'd rather drink poison than attend. From the moment he picked her up after work through the rest of the evening, Mark overflowed with ideas for how they would handle the coming months and years. She couldn't have asked for anything more from his reaction to the news. However, as the evening wore on, and Mark continued to talk about his plans for the future—their wedding, their new home, decisions they would make about raising the child—nannies, schools, hobbies—she developed a cold lump in the pit of her stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with the delicious meal they'd been served. _

_Even if Mark had been able to live up to the promises he was making, she'd realized that she didn't want his dream—_with him. _ As she pictured herself in the hospital delivery room, in the nursery of their new home, in P.T.A. meetings, in some church sitting in the pew reserved for parents of the bride or groom, Derek persisted in appearing in all of them. He, not Mark, was the person she had dreamed of doing all these things with—and, to her dismayed surprise, it seemed as if her heart was not willing to let go of what her mind had already declared off limits. _

_Addison felt . . . stupid. The realization that she missed Derek and wished she'd never started the affair was hardly breaking news, but the simple truth was that she'd forfeited the life she'd once dreamed of with Derek by having an affair with the man sitting in front of her. That truth didn't change just because she was pregnant with that same man's baby. Her impromptu, hormone-and-alcohol-fueled impulse to take a chance on shocking Derek into realizing something was wrong with their marriage by cheating on him had blown up in her face. _

_As she'd been doing for the past almost six weeks, she tried resolutely ignoring all thoughts of Derek. Derek had left with no word as to his whereabouts, and she was determined not to waste her time on useless regrets. _

_And yet, . . . and yet . . . she felt swamped in feelings she couldn't have described even if she'd wanted to, except for the uppermost layer—a wave of almost overwhelming panic. Addison's part in the conversation had quickly dwindled to monosyllabic replies as she fought the urge to flee the restaurant, to flee Mark's presence and find a hiding spot where she could pretend the world outside had stopped while she figured out what had suddenly happened to her. _

_"So, what do you think? A live-in nanny? Or do we just pay for rotating shifts of babysitters? . . . Addison? . . . Addison?!"_

_Caught up in her emotional turmoil, Addison only gradually became aware that Mark had ended his Future Highlights of Parenthood monologue and was waiting for a response. She tried hard to put up a false front once she realized Mark was scrutinizing her, but her efforts felt awkward even to herself. After a few stilted attempts at a festivity they no longer felt, Mark quietly paid the bill and they went home. Once there, Addison pleaded a headache and tried to go straight to bed, but Mark held onto her arm in a bid to make her stay._

_"Listen," he said gruffly, "I know you want to be alone, so I'll go in the living room and catch the Yankee_ _game."_ _ Addison closed her eyes, grateful for the break but mostly just hoping that Mark wouldn't keep her there for long. After a long pause, Mark took a deep breath and continued. "I'm _here_. Derek's not, but I'm _here_, and I love you, and I love our baby." He then kissed her gently on the forehead and trudged into the living room while Addison made her escape._

_Finally alone, Addison reviewed her options as she stripped off her diamond and ruby choker and earring set, the bias-cut, red silk evening gown, and creamy Irish lace lingerie—conscious that every single item was either a gift from Derek or bought by herself with the intention of attracting his attention. A chance for life again with Derek? No matter how badly she wanted it, that option was highly unlikely-although the fact that she hadn't yet been served with divorce papers might mean there was still a chance, however infinitesimal. However, the odds on that chance undeniably dwindled from infinitesimal to zero if she went ahead with the pregnancy. The bottom line was that there was no way Derek would agree to raise Mark's child—assuming this supposedly new and improved Mark would even allow that possibility._

_Removing her make-up in front of the three-paneled bathroom mirror, she thought back to Mark's words of _just _a few minutes ago. Why had he brought up Derek? She hadn't said anything about what she'd been thinking. Not for the first time, she'd wondered how much of Mark's wanting her lay in the fact that she'd belonged to Derek first. She strongly suspected that whether or not Mark had wanted—or was even capable of taking on—the responsibilities of fatherhood, he never would surrender tangible proof that he'd outdone Derek in the "make a baby" game. (Damn her ambivalence! Why had she wasted so much time telling Derek she wasn't ready?) _

_Addison had buried her face in the pillows as she'd tried to banish the suspicion that Mark saw her uterus as a trophy he had taken from Derek with this pregnancy. _

_Life with Mark? Given his track record (including that supply room visit with Nurse What's-her-name about a month ago), the odds on a fairy-tale ending with Mark were even longer than the odds on a possible reconciliation with Derek—but, she had acknowledged sadly, what had made her panic had not been the possibility that Mark would abandon her and the baby at the first sign of difficulty, but that he would try not to. _

_The bottom line had been that she had never taken the possibility of a long-term relationship with Mark seriously. His compulsive infidelities had not been something she could ever have conceived of overlooking on a long-term basis. Laughing with Derek at his best friend's promiscuity was a far cry from knowing that more days than not, her boyfriend/husband would have been with another woman before he came home to her. She'd already watched her mother live that life, and she was not about to follow in her footsteps, no matter how good her parents' marriage otherwise had seemed to be._

_The realization that the last six weeks had been nothing but a consolation prize she had allowed herself in the wake of Derek's departure had saddened her. She loved Mark-in a way-and had become both sorry and scared at the realization that eventually she'd have to move on. On the other hand, this knowledge made her decision about the pregnancy easy; even without depending on the remote possibility of a reunion with Derek, knowing she'd eventually be leaving the relationship made the abortion inevitable. _

_Addison's conscience raised its hand at this last bit. Yes, this was her body and she had every right to do with it as she pleased, but-did she owe Mark a say in this? After all, this collection of cells_ _in her uterus was his, too. Sort of. Anyway, he was bound to be furious at her if she went ahead with her plans. She consoled herself with the thought that Mark's anger would be short-lived; his own innate sense of reality would soon force him to come to his senses and recognize that the last thing he wanted was the set of obligations a child would impose. _

_And if he didn't?_

"I'm _here. _Derek's not, but I'm _here_, and I love you, and I love our baby."

_Addison slammed her hairbrush back into the cabinet and grimaced. Even if the reality was that Mark was too driven by his need for instant gratification to take on any long-term relationships or responsibilities, _he was convinced that he loved her and the baby, at least for the moment_. Yes, he would be angry at first, but eventually he would see the truth of her position. She briefly considered waiting for a while to see if he'd come around on his own, but the thought of enduring a soon-to-be-terminated pregnancy any longer than she had to was unbearable. She _needed_ to be not pregnant STAT. _

_It was time for bed._

_Addison lay dry-eyed in the darkness, mentally rearranging her schedule for the next day. She'd have to go in to work to make arrangements for a couple of patients, but then she'd be free to go anywhere but Mt. Sinai for her . . . procedure. Pat could probably squeeze her in at Westside-let her skip the customary counseling about her options and simply perform the evacuation. If not Pat, then maybe Harper. She'd start calling as soon as she got to the office. As for what would she do afterward? With a sigh, she started cataloging all the things she'd need to do if Mark decided to kick her out._

_Mark walked in a little over an hour later, quietly undressed, and slipped into bed. Given the exhausting nature of the evening, Addison hoped he'd simply go to sleep, but he held his arms out in invitation. Unable to deny him or herself one last night of faux intimacy, she spooned against him as she normally did when they were ready to fall asleep, her back to his chest, enfolded in his arms. Mark surprised her by nuzzling against her neck and gently saying, "Let's make love"-an overture so far removed from his normal invitations to have sex that it made her groan inside. Feeling like a hypocrite, she turned around and gave him a deep, lingering kiss while she wondered whether this would be the last time they had sex._

**divider – divider - divider**

Mark stood, supermarket daisies in hand, trying to make sense out of what he could see from the doorway of the darkened bedroom. Addison was in her bathrobe, curled up under the sheets, with a pillow clutched to her stomach. Her face was covered by her hair and there were tissues littering the bed. Did she come home early because she was sick? Why didn't she call him?

What the hell was he supposed to do? If she was asleep, probably the best thing he could do for her would be to leave her alone. But what if she had a fever? Or some other problem he couldn't determine just from looking at her hair spread out over the pillow? He had to know how she was feeling. He turned on the bedside lamp and knelt by her side of the bed. "Addie?" he asked quietly, stroking the back of her head. "Addie, are you awake?"

Addison desperately wished for the power of invisibility. She was just not ready to have this conversation. Not yet. "Go away, Mark," she ordered, her tears evident even in a voice muffled by a pillow.

Mark withdrew his hand. So. Addison had been crying and wanted to be alone. Again. He knew this meant something had happened with Derek. Maybe he'd finally asked her for the divorce. That would account for the mounds of tissues. And the darkened room. And the running away with no explanation.

Mark wasn't quite sure how he felt. Thoughts of Derek these days automatically carried with them regret over the loss of his best friend, although there was also indescribable relief because a request for a divorce meant he no longer had to worry about Derek coming back to reclaim Addison. In that moment, the regret and the relief found themselves warring with feelings of intense jealousy, although it was hard to tell if he was more jealous of Addison's reaction to Derek's call or of Derek's willingness to talk to Addison but not to him.

Mark shook his head, disgusted at his own introspection. "Derek wants a divorce, he wants out. It's time to move on. It's time to be happy," he told himself firmly, fixing a grin on his face-a grin that faded as he listened to Addison's continued sobs.

"Mark. Go away. Now." Addison's voice was less muffled this time and accompanied by an arm pointing toward the door. She hoped that if she kept speaking this way, Mark would get a goddamned clue and leave without trying to engage her in an actual conversation. She had enough to cope with from the cramping and nausea without adding a major confrontation to the evening's challenges.

Mark considered his next move carefully. Addison was clearly feeling miserable and needed taking care of. To start with, she could be dehydrated from all the crying. Besides, if this really was about divorce papers, then they had some serious talking to do. She couldn't go on pretending this was something that didn't affect him as much as it affected her. They had to make plans—at least to finalize the divorce and establish paternity before the baby was born, if nothing else.

He reached out and gently tapped her on the shoulder. "Adds? Addie? Look at me. I want to make sure you're okay." When she refused to move, he shook her shoulder and spoke in his best doctor-to-patient voice. "Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd, look at me now."

Addison sighed silently. Ready or not, it was time to accept responsibility for what she had done. She pulled herself up onto her elbows and turned to face him. She was pale, but her eyes were swollen and puffy with dark circles underneath, and what was left of her make-up existed only in faint smudges of mascara ringing her eyes.

Mark was shaken by Addison's appearance. "Addie . . . Addison." He fumbled for something to say as he moved to sit beside her on the bed. "It'll be okay." He cursed silently as Addison's stare remained unchanged. He was no good at this, but there was nothing left to do but keep trying. "Whatever Derek wants, we'll handle it. All he can take is money. He can't hurt us anymore. He's gone." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he reached out to pull her into his arms, but Addison scooted hurriedly to the other side of the mattress.

Addison stared at Mark dumbly, confounded by his bringing Derek into the discussion. Was the man a complete ass? No matter what she'd just decided, she couldn't have this discussion now, not after a comment like that. She couldn't discuss what she'd done if he was going to drag Derek into it.

"Go _away_, Mark," she ordered again, this time staring him right in the eye and raising her voice for added emphasis, but she couldn't meet his eyes for long. What could she say that would get him out? She stalled by sitting up and settling herself firmly against the headboard at the far corner of the bed. "_Please_, just go away," she asked, managing to make her request sound like a dismissal. "I'll be fine." She did a creditable job of mimicking her normal speaking tones, but the effect was ruined by a voice made scratchy from hours of crying.

Mark's eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. Yeah, he was concerned about Addison, but not as concerned as he had been a few moments earlier. If she had strength enough to play these kinds of games, she obviously felt better than she looked.

Addison resettled the pillow on her stomach and pulled the bedding up as far as it would go. Mark could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat as he watched her oh-so-obviously setting as much of a barrier as possible between them. He was getting fucking tired of feeling like a third wheel in his own home, in his own _bed_, God damn it. Even when Derek wasn't there, he was there.

Mark knew he had to leave the room or he was going to say something that would only cause a fight—a fight he knew he couldn't win. There was never a way for man to win an argument with a crying woman. He stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the forgotten daisies by his feet. "These are for you," he grunted, setting the vase down so firmly on the night table that water sloshed over the sides. Although he (mostly) hadn't done it on purpose, he was actually grateful for the spilled water, because it allowed him time to calm down while he fetched the paper towels.

**divider – divider - divider**

Addison put her face in her hands and groaned while Mark went to the linen closet. Obviously, stalling had been a stupid strategy. Better to get it over with, she thought, than wait until he's even more pissed off than he already is. She pulled off the covers and had started standing up by the time Mark returned.

"I'm glad to see you're getting up," he said gruffly as he industriously mopped up the small spill. "You need to eat and drink something soon." He took a grim satisfaction in knowing that at least he'd done the right thing by shopping for groceries; they wouldn't have to fuss about going out to eat that night.

Addison's stomach flip-flopped. She'd been dealing with cramping and nausea for hours; even the thought of eating was more than she could bear. "I think I'll skip dinner tonight," she said with an attempted casualness.

Mark's head snapped up at that. "You can't do that," he said bluntly.

Addison stared at him incredulously. "What did you say?"

"I said you can't do that. It's not good for the baby." By the time he had finished speaking, Mark had planted himself right in front of Addison, attempting to stare her down.

Addison sat down on the bed again and took a deep breath. You can get through this, she told herself. "Mark."

"Addison."

Addison stared at her hands as she reviewed her options. Start with a rational explanation for her actions and hope he agreed with her reasoning? Admit she'd acted without consulting him and beg for forgiveness? Plead temporary insanity and dissolve into tears? Well, that last part should be easy enough. Between the nerves, cramping, and nausea (all of which had intensified as soon as Mark walked into the apartment), hysteria was a distinct possibility.

After he finished mopping up the spilled water and discarded the soggy paper towels, Mark stood silently, arms folded, by the side of the bed. Addison tried to summon up the nerve to begin, but as the seconds turned into minutes, it became harder and harder simply to stop staring at her hands, let alone speak. She lifted her head when she heard Mark clear his throat.

"Addison, I know you don't want to talk to me—_again_—and I won't force you to. But. . . ." At this point, Mark put his hand under Addison's chin and gently lifted her head until her eyes met his. "You skipping dinner is not an option. I just brought in four bags of groceries, including stuff that you're supposed to want when you're pregnant. You can take a look at what's here, or we can order in, or I'll take you out to eat, but you _will eat_. It's not fair to the baby to starve it just because you're upset with Derek."

Addison's nervous energy converted into anger at this second attempt to use the baby to coerce her into something she didn't want to do, with the mention of Derek's name adding insult to injury. She stood up so forcefully that Mark was forced to take a couple of steps backward.

"Give it up, Mark," she yelled. "You don't have to worry about me eating dinner because of the baby because there _**is**_ no baby. No-o-o-o-o-o-o baby. No baby and no Derek. So, go on. Go back to your office, or a bar, or a gym, or anywhere else you like because there is no need whatsoever to be worried about me. The. Baby. Is. Gone." Addison paused to take a breath.

"Gone?" The confused and stricken expression on Mark's face was almost too painful to look at. If Addison hadn't been so hell-bent on simply finishing the rest of the fight, she would have stopped right there. However, since this evidently was turning into what would probably the ugliest fight of her life, she hardened her heart and kept up her guard.

"Yes, Mark," she replied, her face turned into an iron mask. "Gone. Finito. Kaput. Dead. What part of that statement did you not understand?"

Unable to bear looking at Mark's face any longer, Addison started picking up the crumpled tissues on the bed and tossing them in the wastebasket. She steeled herself for Mark's explosion, but the next thing she knew, she'd been whirled around, his arms were enfolding her, he was kissing the top of her head, and he was apologizing. Apologizing!

"Addison, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry for-I'm an ass. I shouldn't-I'm sorry."

Addison stood absolutely still, wondering if she'd suddenly slipped into the Twilight Zone. Mark was _apologizing_ to her? After what she'd just told him?

Mark paused long enough to grab Addison by the shoulders and push her far enough away so that he could look her in the eye. "Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor yet?" As Addison nodded her yes mutely, Mark pulled her to him again. "Don't worry. We can try again when you're ready."

By the time Mark had finished speaking and was simply holding her with his face buried in her hair, Addison realized that the situation had gone from dreadful to disastrous. Mark assumed she'd had a miscarriage. Clearing up that misunderstanding was going to be difficult enough, but his assurances that they could "try again" once she had recovered dismayed her. No matter how she saw the relationship, Manwhore Mark was serious about planning a future with her. Her life had turned into an episode of _The Twilight Zone_.

She didn't know how she was going to do this. She had to think. The first step would be getting out of the apartment. No, the first step was to get out of Mark's embrace.

Addison twisted around until she was facing Mark, whose eyes were suspiciously bright. She gentled her voice as she took his face in both her hands. "There's no need to apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. Do you understand me?"

Mark nodded. "Addison—" he began, but was stopped by Addison's fingertips being placed briefly against his lips.

"Okay, then," she continued gently but determinedly. "I'm not angry at you, Mark. I'm not, but I do want to be alone tonight." She raised her hand in a stop signal as he opened his mouth to protest. "I already have an overnight bag packed." Addison smiled wryly as she remembered that she had packed that bag as an emergency kit in case Mark had decided to throw her out. "I'll get a room at the Intercontinental, and we can see each other at work tomorrow."

Addison tensely awaited his reaction; she expected him to argue with her. After all, she was recovering from outpatient surgery, and logic dictated that she _should_ have someone around. Logic be damned. All she was wanted was to shut down the conversation and escape. For a moment, she could see Mark composing his argument in his head, but then he took a deep breath. "You need to rest. I'll go."

Surprised and grateful for his sudden capitulation, Addison tried to talk Mark into staying, but he was adamant and told her not to worry about him. He said he'd go down to the gym for a couple of hours and then nap in one of the on-call rooms; he needed the exercise. Within three minutes, his gym bag was packed.

"Do you need me to do anything for you before I go?" he asked cautiously.

"No. I'm fine. I think I'll make myself some tea. It will be good to be out of bed for a while." Addison deliberately kept her back turned toward him as she walked to the kitchen; their routine dictated that she should give him a good-bye kiss, but she just couldn't. She needed, really _needed_ some time alone to think about how to handle this gigantic mess she'd gotten herself into.

"Well," he temporized, clearly trying to postpone his departure, "you'll find plenty of food in there. I . . . ."

Addison stopped at the kitchen doorway, feeling like a total bitch. It really wasn't fair to kick the man out of his own home when-if he knew the truth—he'd be angry. Very angry. "I know. Thank you. I'm sure I'll find something good when I get my appetite back." She stared fixedly at his top collar button, unable to meet his gaze. "Listen. Are you sure you don't want me to go? Really, it's no trouble."

"No." As Mark tentatively put his arms around her, Addison stiffened, but allowed it. "You're the one who's not feeling well. The least I can do is let you have the condo tonight since you need to be alone." He kissed the top of her head and added tonelessly, "Keep your cell phone handy in case you need to call 911." Then he left.

Addison collapsed gracelessly at the kitchen table, wincing at the sudden series of cramps tearing at her middle. She began crying again, uncertain as to why or for whom she was crying, but knowing that her tears would go on for a long time.

**divider – divider - divider**

"Hey, Evan. Didn't expect to run into you here at the gym," said Charlene Dono. Scheduled to start the following week on Pediatrics at Mt. Sinai Hospital, she'd expected she'd have to wait until then to catch up with her old nursing school buddy. Instead, here they both were Riverside Fitness, an exclusive health club on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

"Charlene, what a surprise!" replied Evan McLoughlin, getting off the leg press as he reached out to give her a hug. "What are you doing in this part of town? I thought you lived out in Park Slope."

"Not anymore. Daddy just bought me a condo on west 81st," she responded. "The market's been doing really well, and he decided to share the wealth. But don't let me interrupt your work-out," she added hastily as he started wiping down the machine.

"Believe me, you're not," Evan demurred. "My legs were ready to quit ten minutes ago. I've been waiting for that guy over there to finish with the heavy bag." He nodded toward the far right corner of the room.

Charlene took a brief look at the jock in the corner and decided to let her gaze linger. The guy looked mid-thirties-ish, ruggedly handsome with short brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard. From the way he was pounding the bag, she guessed that he might be a boxer, but his face looked too good to have spent much time in the ring. (Although maybe the beard was hiding something?) What really caught her eye, though, was the guy's build. His sweat-soaked, black wife-beater and shorts displayed every muscle to its best advantage. She ostentatiously licked her lips before commenting, "Judging by the look of him, you're going to be waiting a while longer." She turned to him and grinned. "Mind if I wait with you?"

Evan shook his head. "I'd be happy to talk for a while, but I don't think you want to be waiting for that character."

"Don't tell me," she deadpanned. "He's married. Or gay. Which is it?"

"Neither."

Charlene raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. When nothing more was forthcoming, she folded her arms and said, "This has got to be good. What do you know about him?"

"He's Mark Sloan, works out of Mt. Sinai. By all accounts, he's the guy you'd want to see if you needed cutting-edge plastic surgery. Or a facelift good enough to be undetectable in a widescreen close-up."

Charlene looked at the plastic surgeon once again. Terrific at his job, doubtless well off because of that job, undeniably _**hot**_, straight, and single. "Sounds like quite a catch."

Evan answered the seeming truthfulness of her comment with a wry smile and then paused for a moment as he tried to find a way to phrase what he wanted to say. "Surgically, he's one of the best. Personally? Aside from being one of the most arrogant human beings I've ever met, he's . . . a player."

"So?" Charlene shrugged, figuring she'd judge the man's arrogance level for herself. Besides, most surgeons were arrogant; it went with the territory. "He's a single guy who's popular with women. Why would this be a reason _**not**_ to meet him?"

Evan looked toward the corner again. Although there was only a slight possibility that he could be overheard, he didn't want the other man to hear him passing along gossip about his personal life, however well-intentioned his aims were. "Why don't we go into the Cardio Room to continue this discussion?" he asked, taking Charlene's arm and heading toward the door.

He lowered his voice and continued, "The man is more than "popular." He's slept with every woman at the hospital who'll let him, with nurses being his preferred targets. What's more, he's broken up his best friend's marriage and is currently living with the guy's wife."

Charlene still had her hopes up until the last sentence. "So he's not single, then." Her disappointment was tangible.

"Not exactly," Evan responded dryly.

Comprehension dawned. Charlene paused for one last appreciative look before they left the room. "So, I guess I'll keep my eyes open."

Evan admonished her with a look.

"Give it up, Evan. Manwhores are fun. I'm looking for a date, not a relationship."

**divider – divider - divider**

The subject of Charlene and Evan's discussion not only hadn't heard a word they'd said, he hadn't even known they were in the room. Nothing short of fire, flood, or an explosion would have been enough to break Mark Sloan's concentration.

Mark's original intention in going to the gym was to work his way into a zone that would allow him to stop thinking. Unfortunately, the plan hadn't worked out the way he'd wanted it to. His world had dwindled to the heavy bag in front of him and a wish that Derek Shepherd was somehow inside the bag. The random litany running through his head provided the rhythm for his workout, as each phrase was punctuated with a punch.

Smug bastard . . . threw it all away . . . threw us all away . . . family who loves him . . . had it all . . . father who came home every night . . . mother wasn't a drunk . . . a fucking . . . vicious . . . oversexed . . . drunk. . . . Four great sisters . . . Kathleen . . . Nancy . . . Lizzie . . . Amy . . . fucking bastard . . . beautiful wife. . . rich, talented, beautiful wife . . . still loves him (this line merited a flurry of punches whenever it came up in the rotation) . . . fucking . . . smug bastard . . . ignored her . . . too damned busy . . . to notice . . . she's lonely. . . Who in the goddamned hell . . . does he think . . . he is? . . . How . . . can he . . . throw it all away? . . . son of a bitch . . . he disappears . . . we don't exist . . . anymore . . . and she . . . still loves him (another flurry). . . .

These variations on a theme kept Mark's consciousness busy for quite some time, but even he couldn't keep it up indefinitely. Eventually, his mind drifted back to the early days of his relationship with Derek and resurrected old grudges.

The way he kept insisting that he was the "big" brother just because he was four months older when he'd always been the short, skinny one. (The dweeb didn't even realize that his snotty attitude would have meant spending all four years of high school stuffed in his locker if Mark hadn't put the word out that anyone who messed with Derek would have to answer to him.)

The way Derek kept bending his ear about that stupid Hemingway book, but then wouldn't say a word when Mark needed the information for an extra-credit book report that would keep him from failing English and being kicked off the football team. (He still owed Nancy for that one.)

The way he bragged that his scholarship to Bowdoin meant he was the real "brain" between them, never knowing that Mark had nagged his parents into creating a fake scholarship for him.

The way Derek kept apologizing for him ("Don't mind him. He doesn't know how to talk to people. What Mark meant to say was. . . .") until Mark got tired of warning him to stop and just sucker-punched him, thereby splitting his lip open.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1

**Warning**: One of the characters in this chapter uses a derogatory term for the developmentally disabled or differently abled. My character use this term only because I feel it reveals something about his mindset, and because it is historically accurate (i.e., commonly used without being considered hate speech in the time this story takes place).

**Author Note:** Thanks ever so much to my anonymous reviewer. It's lovely to hear that someone is enjoying my work. :)

**Move On**

Sorry-Grateful

Chapter 2

_Carolyn Shepherd could scarcely believe her eyes. Two eleven-year-old boys were standing before her. Her son, Derek, was yelling incoherently with a bloody hand clamped over his mouth while his best friend, Mark, stood scowling with his hands jammed in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ground. Something obviously needed to be sorted out._

_So much for quietly fixing dinner on a peaceful Sunday afternoon._

_"All right, Derek. Calm down," she said, pulling his hand away from his mouth so she could get a look at the damage. Nothing serious, thank goodness—only a bloody lip. _

_"He hit me. For no reason, Mom! He hit me." Derek glared at his "brother" as he put his hand back over his broken lip._

_Carolyn was startled by this news. For all that Mark liked to roughhouse and invent countless tests of strength for the purpose of proving himself the stronger one, he'd never, so far as she knew, hit Derek first in anger. If Derek was telling the truth, there would be serious consequences for Mark. _

_"Well, Pat," she thought, "you kept warning me that Mark's willingness to keep his fists to himself was a miracle that wasn't going to last." She was angry at her late husband for having been proven right, and even angrier at Mark for having let loose with his fists. For all the challenges that Mark had provided over the years, he'd spared her this one—until now, apparently._

_"Lighten up," she admonished herself. "There's more than enough drama going on already." She could hardly in good conscience be planning to punish Mark for losing his temper when she was on the verge of doing so herself. It was time to defuse the situation._

_"Derek, stop carrying on. You looked worse last week after playing football in the park." Derek's eyes widened at that remark, but Carolyn continued talking before he could protest. "Go to the kitchen, wash off that lip with lots of cold water, and then put pressure on it. You know the drill. I'll be there in a minute." When Derek continued to stand there with a look of outraged injured innocence, she folded her arms and gave Derek a look that let him know he'd better get going if he knew what was good for him._

_She then turned to Mark. "Mark Everett Sloan, look at me," she commanded quietly._

_It took a few moments, but he eventually met her eyes. Carolyn was troubled by what she saw there. "What do you have to say for yourself, young man?"_

_"Nuthin'." _

_So now she was going to have to play twenty questions with the budding boxer. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Nothing? Fine, then. Mark, I want you to sit down in the living room and not move a muscle until I come talk to you. Do you understand me?"_

_"Yes, ma'am." Mark walked stiffly to the armchair and sat down, hands in his pockets and eyes back on the floor. Carolyn stood in the doorway looking at him. The boy was clearly ashamed of what he'd done, judging by the way he refused to look at her, but his body language also clearly indicated that he was also absolutely furious while Derek seemed convinced that he was a blameless victim of Mark's unprovoked attack. Her reverie was broken by the yells of her youngest._

_"Mommy? Mo-o-o-o-ommy. Derek's bleeding! MOMMY!"_

_"Amy, hush! Your brother's fine." Carolyn entered the kitchen to find five-year-old Amy listening to Derek's account of the attack. _

_"Excuse me, Derek," Carolyn broke in abruptly. "Let me see your lip." Her earlier assessment had been right. The bleeding was already negligible; all that Derek needed was to apply a little ice to keep the swelling down. She, on the other hand, needed to get Amy out of the kitchen. "Sweetie, I need to take care of Derek. Why don't you go upstairs and draw a picture to help him feel better?" _

_Whatever comment Derek might have made at that suggestion was quickly swallowed at the sight of his mother's raised eyebrow. "Sure, Ames," he said as gracefully as he could manage. It wasn't his sister's fault Mom was treating him like he'd done something wrong. "That would be nice."_

_"What should I draw?"_

_Derek pretended to give the matter serious thought while he thought about the sorts of pictures he'd like to draw. Unfortunately, he couldn't mention any of them to his mother or his sister, as they all involved particularly gruesome events with Mark as the victim. Finally, he shrugged. "Why don't you draw a puppy?" Not that it really mattered, since nobody would be able to tell what the drawing was anyway, but it could be part of their never-ending campaign to convince their mother to let them have a dog._

_Amy's smoky blue eyes sparkled at his choice. "What color?"_

_"Any color you want. And make sure it has lots of brothers and sisters," he called after his sister as she went running to her room for her crayons. Cheered by his sister's enthusiasm, Derek started to grin, but flinched when his lip protested. "Ouch!" he yelped, just a touch dramatically. _

_"Serves you right for stirring your sister up about those puppies," Carolyn mock grumbled, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a grin. "Go sit down at the table while I make an ice bag for you." She started assembling her tools when she heard the metal chair legs scraping the floor in a way she recognized. "And don't sit backwards on the chair."_

_Derek turned the chair around to face the pink confetti-swirl Formica tabletop, wondering whether his mother really was telling the truth when she claimed she had eyes in the back of her head. It was too bad she didn't have eyes in the front yard; then she'd know he was innocent. "Mom?"_

_"Hmm?" Carolyn asked as she finished folding the clean dishtowel over the baggie of cracked ice._

_"You're not being fair. You're acting like I did something wrong."_

_Carolyn plopped the bag down in front of him. "Put this on," she instructed and then sat down across the table. "So, I'm not being fair? I wasn't aware I'd done anything so far except to tell you to wash your face." _

_Derek looked back at her steadily, letting her know that he thought she wasn't being entirely truthful. "Then why haven't you punished Mark?"_

_Carolyn looked right back at him. "That's your definition of fairness? As soon as any of you accuses the other of something, I'm supposed to immediately start handing out punishments?"_

_"Yes," Derek answered promptly, and then thought about what he'd just said. "No." This conversation wasn't proceeding at all the way he'd thought it would. "Mom. You can see what he did!" Derek protested, pointing to his swollen lip and the blood on his shirt._

_"I can see you have a bloody lip," corrected Carolyn. "I don't know yet how it happened. Care to enlighten me?"_

_"I _told_ you what happened," Derek answered in his most aggrieved tone. "He _punched_ me. For _noreason_, he punched me."_

_"I heard that part before," Carolyn said evenly. "Now tell me what was happening before he punched you." _

_"Nothing! I wasn't even talking to him. I was talking to Taisha from across the street. She came over to ask about the project that's due next week in Mrs. Allman's class. Mark was staring at her chest and she told him to stop. Then he said something stupid about her hot bra and Taisha got really mad and started yelling at him. I tried to tell her not to pay attention to him because Mark says stupid things lots of times, and then he punched me."_

_"Oh, Derek! No!"_

_"What?" Derek asked, honestly confused. He thought he'd been doing the right thing by trying to make peace between Mark and Taisha and all he'd gotten for his troubles was a punch in the mouth and a horrified look from his mother._

_Carolyn's thoughts went several places at once. She missed her husband desperately at that moment. How was she supposed to help these two navigate through puberty? It was hard enough dealing with teenage girls. She'd have to ask her brother over to dinner—SOON—for the birds and the bees talk. Or maybe Father Ryan could be pressed into service, since he was easier to reach._

_Next, she thought about Mark. Of course, she was as dismayed as Derek had been at Mark's crude comment, but she couldn't find it in her heart to blame the boy—no, young man, she corrected herself ruefully. She was sure it was something he'd seen or heard at home that had led Mark to say such an outlandish thing. The Sloans weren't fit to raise a puppy, let alone a child. Mark was in for a world of trouble if he couldn't eventually rise above his parents' horrible example._

_But now it was time to talk to her own son, whose pained expression told her she had some explaining to do. "Derek . . ." she began haltingly, wondering what approach she should take. "Mark shouldn't have hit you. But—" she interpolated hastily as Derek's expression changed to one of vindication, "you're not totally in the clear, either."_

_Derek's eyes turned into the stormy indigo Carolyn knew signaled the beginning of an argument. "I was right," he said flatly. "You always go easy on Mark."_

_"I'll deal with Mark later. Right now, I'm talking to you. Don't you realize how you hurt Mark just now?"_

_Derek wasn't having any of it. "_I_ hurt _Mark_? _I'm_ the one who's _bleeding!_" he snapped._

_"Derek, watch your tone! Or you can go to your room right now and we'll resume this discussion in the morning." Carolyn fixed Derek with a stare that let him know there was no room for negotiation. It took only a few moments before he was staring at the floor in much the same way that Mark had._

_"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled._

_"Derek, look at me," she ordered gently. _

_"Yes, ma'am," Derek answered again, but he was staring fixedly at her chin and his mouth formed a thin line. Carolyn sighed again._

_"You and I have talked about this before. Mark's parents don't spend much time with him. He needs our help to learn about being polite."_

_"That's what I was doing," Derek pointed out in a pained tone_

_"No, honey, that's not what you were doing. Do you remember what you said? You told Taisha not to pay attention to him because he was stupid. You said he wasn't worth listening to." _

_The silence told her Derek was thinking about what she said. She let that thought sink in and then continued. "Can you think of another way to handle that situation?"_

_"But Mom, she was already yelling," Derek protested aggrievedly._

_"I'm sure she was." Time for a switch in tactics. Carolyn permitted herself a small grin and asked conspiratorially, "Can you imagine what Nancy would have done if he'd asked her that question?" _

_Contemplating the lengths to which Nancy would go to avenge herself for such a crude remark could be scary if one were the potential victim, but the thought of Mark as the potential victim lightened Derek's mood considerably. _

_Once Derek's scowl resolved itself into a small grin, Carolyn laid down the next step in her argument. "So, Derek—why do you think Nancy would be mad at Mark for talking about her bra?" _

_Derek looked at his mother as if she'd lost her mind. _

_Play it casual, Carolyn admonished herself. You're almost there. "Humor me. Pretend I'm an alien from that _Star Trek _show of yours and I don't know anything about humans. Tell me why I shouldn't talk about bras."_

_By now, Derek suspected his mother was setting him up for something, but he couldn't figure out what that something was. "Because they're private. Private stuff is supposed to be private. That's why I don't go into the girls' rooms without knocking and they don't come into my room without knocking. Stuff like underwear is private." _

_"You're right, Derek. And if you or the girls got caught in your underwear, especially by somebody outside the family, you'd be embarrassed and angry, right?"_

_Derek blushed. How did Mom know he'd had a dream like that just the other night, that he'd gone to school in his underwear? "Yeah," he mumbled._

_Carolyn's curiosity was raised by the blush, but it wasn't enough to deter her from her objective. "Now I have a question for you, and I want you to think about the answer carefully. When Mark said . . . what he said . . . was he trying to embarrass Taisha or make her angry? Was he trying to be mean, or did he just make a mistake?"_

_Derek felt like he'd been sucker punched again. He'd known it was coming, but he still hadn't seen it. "But Mom! It doesn't matter. He shouldn't have said that to her, and he _hit_ me."_

_Carolyn's expression hardened. "Yes it does matter, Derek. Mark made a mistake, and so did you. You were both rude, but the difference is that you should have known better than to talk that way about Mark. He's your best friend, and you embarrassed him in front of Taisha."_

_"He was rude first. And he hit me. You never let us hit when we're mad, but you don't care this time because it's Mark. You let him get away with everything." Derek's expression matched her own, but his eyes glittered brightly._

_Carolyn held Derek's stare steadily while she considered her options. She couldn't really blame Derek for seeing her treatment of Mark as favoritism since he was still too young to understand either how sadly deficient Mark's own parents were or the relative values of fairness when taking into account the boys' upbringing. That still didn't mean, however, that she was going to let him think it was acceptable to talk about Mark that way, for his own sake as well as for Mark's._

_She picked up the forgotten ice bag and handed to Derek, who applied it sulkily to his lip. "Try to keep that on for a little while, or your lip will be the size of a balloon for school tomorrow." She sighed with a mixture of pity and exasperation. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked ruefully._

_Derek muttered something behind his ice bag that sounded suspiciously like, "Punish me for trying to stop Taisha from yelling at Mark." Carolyn decided to ignore the sarcasm behind the words. _

_"I'm going to take your word that you were trying to make peace." She patted his hand as a peace-making gesture before continuing, knowing that an explosion was coming. "I'm not going to punish you. But you do have to apologize to Mark."_

_"What? No! _He _hit _me_. Let _him_ apologize to _me_." _

_"Derek Christopher Shepherd, have you heard a word I've said?" Carolyn enunciated her words carefully, working hard to keep her voice down. She was on the verge of losing her own temper. "You not only insulted Mark, you also embarrassed him in front of Taisha. How else do you expect to restore peace between the two of you?"_

_"I don't care," retorted Derek. "He's the one who should apologize."_

_Carolyn stopped the natural question that rose to her lips: "Why does it matter who apologizes first?" Forgiveness came hard to Derek; it always had. He and Nancy took after their father that way. Thank goodness, the others had inherited her more flexible temperament._

_"Then you'd better go to your room and think about what you've done and how you might have handled this differently."_

_They rose from the table simultaneously. Carolyn tried to give Derek a friendly arm rub as he passed by, but he stiffly shrugged her off._

_"Thanks for not punishing me, _Mother_."_

_So, she'd graduated from "mom" to "mother." Adolescent snark. It looked like Mark wasn't the only incipient teenager in the household. Between Kathleen and Nancy and these two, she'd soon have four teenagers to deal with. _

_Oh, joy._

_Carolyn looked at the clock and frowned. Mark couldn't wait, but neither could dinner preparations. The roast chicken and baked potatoes should be done in another twenty minutes or so and she hadn't yet started the carrots or the salad. Her lip twitched. "I guess Mark's punishment starts with KP." That was actually for the best. While Derek never needed prompting to talk, she knew from experience that keeping Mark busy was the best way to get him to open up._

_She headed toward the living room to summon him. _

**divider-divider-divider**

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking fuck. Goddamned fucking fuck. How in the goddamned hell did he wind up in this shithole of a mess? Fuck, __**fuck**__, __**FUCK**__!_

_Mark took comfort in the fact that he could indulge in as many obscenities as he wanted to without fear of forced donations to the Swear Jar or creative writing exercises on "How I Could Have Said That without Cursing" as long as he kept them inside his head. It was the only comfort he had._

_Fucking grown-ups with their fucking rules. Why couldn't there be just one set? He could keep one set of rules straight. Shit, he could probably keep two sets of rules straight as long as they didn't keep changing. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't. But it seemed like almost every day he wound up in trouble for something he said. _

_The Shepherds wanted him to be a gentleman. His teachers wanted him to be a gentleman. Well, he knew what his parents thought of gentlemen. His mother laughed hysterically at him the first time he tried to hold her chair out for her at dinner (as Mr. Shepherd had done for Mrs. Shepherd), and his father called him a suck-up any time he called his parents "sir" or "ma'am." He was generally careful about imitating his parents' manners when at home, but the completely different atmospheres in the Sloan and Shepherd homes meant that some mistakes were inevitable._

_School-school was a little better. Around the teachers, it was safer to remember the Shepherd rules, as long as he remembered to keep the "Yes, ma'ams" and "No, sirs" to a minimum. It was tricky, since neither house's set of rules fit consistently, but over the years, he'd managed to find a middle course that kept him in good enough standing to avoid serious trouble without being labeled a suck up or a teacher's pet._

_It was easier, of course, when the teachers weren't around. Then, at least, it didn't matter so much if he went by the Sloan rules. Some kids didn't like him when he talked that way, while others liked him a lot. But whether the other kids liked him or not, Derek was always there, _apologizing_ for him and telling everyone he didn't know how to talk right no matter how many times Mark told him to stop. It was a miracle the entire class didn't think he was a fucking retard._

_So many fucking rules at the Shepherd house. The ever-growing list of swear words he couldn't use. Always remembering to say "sir" and "ma'am." Never say bad things about other people, even when the bad things are true. Don't act like you know more than a grown-up, even when the grown-up is wrong. That goes double when in church. Everything goes double in church—sitting perfectly still for a whole hour in uncomfortable clothes, no talking except in an emergency, and even then, you had to whisper. And the most important thing to remember was to listen, really listen, to the preaching because Mrs. Shepherd always asked about it afterward, and if you couldn't answer her questions, she spent all of Sunday lunch "explaining" the sermon, and that got the Shepherd kids mad at him. (Not that he was the only one; they'd all messed up on that one. It still sucked.) _

_And now, he was in trouble again, and he didn't understand why. All he'd done was ask Taisha about her bra. He knew that women wear bras; his mother had taken him with her lots of times when she'd been shopping at that ladies' underwear store and asked his opinion about which ones made her look pretty. No big deal. But Taisha was a girl, a classmate he'd seen a hundred times before and never really noticed. But this time, when she walked over she looked . . . different, and once he'd figured out what the difference was, he felt . . . weird. Curious, but weird. Yeah, weird. As he started wondering what Taisha's bra looked like by imagining some of his mother's bras on her, he remembered a comment his father had made to a waitress a few days ago about her bra making him hot. Mark had thought the comment silly at the time, but now he thought that maybe he understood it a little bit. Or not. But the waitress didn't think it was silly, because she smiled at his father and thanked him. Anyway, when Cindy got mad at him for looking at her chest, he tried repeating his father's comment, hoping it would stop her from yelling at him. Maybe she'd even give him a smile. But then all hell broke loose. Taisha started yelling at him and calling him dirty, and then Derek started apologizing again— _

_Oh, yeah—well, he knew he was going to be in real trouble for punching Derek. His stomach was tied up in such knots that he would have welcomed an opportunity to go to the bathroom, but he'd been told to stay in the chair and didn't dare to do otherwise. He was already worried that Mrs. Shepherd was going to tell him he couldn't ever come back. She was really strict about the no fighting rule; they'd already gotten into trouble several times over that one. (Boxing and wrestling were okay as long as a grown-up acted as referee.) He and Derek were blood brothers with the scars on their thumbs to prove it, but that still didn't mean Mrs. Shepherd couldn't tell him not to come back. The thought of spending every day after school and all of his weekends with his parents—or alone, really, since they weren't around much—made him sick._

_He could hear Derek talking to his Mom. Although he couldn't make out the words, he could tell that Derek was still upset. This made him uneasy, because he didn't think he'd done anything bad enough to keep Derek angry this long. It was only one punch. He could only imagine what Mrs. Shepherd was thinking about him right now. Why wait for the inevitable? Maybe he should just call home and ask the driver to pick him up now instead of after dinner._

_Just about the time Mark started trying to decide whether he was going to run for the telephone or the bathroom first, he heard Derek stomp off. Too late to make a break for it._

_As the seconds lengthened into minutes that seemed like hours, Mark perversely found himself wishing that Derek would come back. Even though Derek was still mad, he'd feel better having him around than not._

_Finally, Carolyn entered the living room and he dared a quick glance at her face. She looked calm. That was a good sign, right? _

_Carolyn looked at Mark, too, trying to figure out the most effective way to approach him. She still hadn't decided whether she'd lead with a sympathetic offer to hear his side of the story or simply give him an opportunity to start the conversation at whichever point he felt comfortable—assuming Mark could ever be comfortable starting a conversation. And assuming she could hold on to her temper long enough to get through the conversation. _

_Silence._

_"Mark."_

_A pause. "Yes, ma'am."_

_"What do you have to say for yourself?"_

_He hadn't thought about what he'd say, so he shrugged. Maybe Derek was right and he was a retard. _

_Carolyn lifted an eyebrow. Even Amy was old enough to know that the best way to start a conversation under these circumstances was either an apology or a sincere claim of innocence. Or both. A shrug of indifference was probably the worst choice he could have made, and her temper flared. She opened her mouth to order Mark harshly into the kitchen, but before she could get a word out, Kathleen rushed in. _

_"Hi, Mark. Hi, Mom, sorry I'm late. Should I start setting the table?"_

_Carolyn checked her watch. Kathleen was late, but not late enough to fuss over. "No, you're off duty tonight. Mark's on KP."_

_Oops. Kathleen took a second look at the scene before her—Mark staring at the floor and her mother wearing an expression she and the others had long ago learned to recognize as major trouble. It was time to go._

_"Okay, then, I'll just head upstairs." She tried to give Mark a sympathetic look before she left, but he was still staring at the floor. "Bye." As she headed up the stairs, she heard her mother's voice behind her._

_"Please let the others know dinner will be a little late. And tell your brother he's free to come down for dinner if he can keep a civil tongue in his head."_

_Kathleen fled the rest of the way._

_Carolyn regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Derek had been right; she was letting her aggravation at the situation affect the way she was treating him. She'd apologize after dinner. For now, she'd better watch her tongue with Mark or she'd wind up having to apologize to him, too._

_"Well?" she inquired._

_"Yes, ma'am?" _

_"Didn't you hear me say you're on KP tonight? Let's go."_

_Carolyn's heart softened as she watched Mark walk to the kitchen as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Maybe that shrug hadn't been the bit of brazen defiance it seemed. _

_"Wash your hands," she directed briskly as they reached the kitchen. "You're peeling the carrots and cutting them up for pennies." Mark headed off the bathroom, only to be forced to stifle a groan when Carolyn redirected him to wash up in the kitchen sink so she could keep an eye on him._

_He couldn't quite suppress a hiss as he forced his bloody right hand out of his pocket. Carolyn dropped the lettuce she was tearing for the salad and started fussing over his hand. Mark endured the application of antiseptic stoically, but tried to refuse the band-aid. Carolyn wasn't about to let him._

_"You've got to wear something, or you'll bleed all over the carrots," she maintained, although the bleeding had already stopped. "You have two choices. Either you let me put on the band-aid, or I'll let Lizzie fix you up."_

_Mark looked Carolyn in the eye for the first time that afternoon, not quite daring to believe she'd made a joke. A few months earlier, eight-year-old Lizzie had corralled him and Derek into playing doctor, using up most of the contents of the first aid kit as she liberally bandaged them for all of their pretend injuries. He and Derek had staggered around stiffly as mummies afterward, happily playing haunted house and pretend-scaring Lizzie and Amy until they were discovered by Kathleen, who made them clean up the mess and advised them to pool their allowances to pay for replacement supplies. Mark had immediately volunteered to take care of the bill and given Kathleen the money the following week. He'd thought that they'd succeeded in keeping what they'd done a secret. They hadn't, but it didn't seem to matter._

_"Make up your mind," she prompted, straight-faced. Will it be me or Lizzie?" _

_Mark mutely held out his hand to accept her peace offering joke, daring to hope that he might not be banished after all. _

_As soon as she released his hand, Mark started using the vegetable peeler so enthusiastically that Carolyn was forced to swap jobs with him, afraid there'd be too little left of the carrots to cook. _

_Once Mark was safely set up slicing cucumbers, Carolyn decided it was time to begin the conversation. "Mark," she began in a fake-casual tone, "It's time we started talking,"_

_Mark gave an abortive nod of the head that could have been interpreted as a yes._

_"I've already heard Derek's side of the story. Now I want to hear yours. What happened between you and Taisha and Derek?" As she waited for a response, she added, "And don't tell me 'nothing.'"_

_Mark finished slicing the rest of the cucumber before answering. "I hit Derek."_

_Carolyn nodded. "I already heard that part. I'm asking you why."_

_"Should I wash the tomatoes?" _

_"No, thank you. I've already washed everything. You can start slicing the tomatoes, though, AND you can answer my question."_

_The thought of repeating Derek's comment and trying to explain why he'd gotten angry about it was too much for Mark. "I dunno." _

_Carolyn turned off the oven and put the carrots in a saucepan with some already melted butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and water on a low flame. It was becoming obvious that this was going to take longer than she wanted, and she hoped the kids were going to be patient about waiting for dinner. _

_She turned around to face him and folded her arms. "All right, then, Mark. Let me start. I know Derek said something very unkind that embarrassed you. But that doesn't mean—" Carolyn stopped talking as Mark's knife clattered to the table._

_Mark's head snapped up in shock that someone actually understood how he felt about Derek's apologies. The very improbability of it unlocked a torrent of feelings that he'd been carefully repressing for months._

_Carolyn wasn't quite sure what was going on in Mark's expression, but she was tired of the silent treatment. If he wasn't going to give her any new information, she was determined to get to the lecture/punishment portion of the evening and be done with it. "Just because Derek said something he shouldn't was no reason to hit him. Have you forgotten the rule about using your words and not your hands when you're angry?"_

_"I do use my words," Mark protested, so hungry for a sympathetic audience that he ignored all other considerations. "But Derek never listens. He says it anyway."_

_Startled by this revelation, Carolyn wanted to be sure she understood what Mark was saying. "You mean he's done this before?" she asked tentatively._

_Mark nodded vigorously. "All the time at school."_

_Carolyn stared in dismay at Mark. So Derek had been embarrassing Mark at school—at least several times, by the sound of it. And Derek refused to stop. She wasn't sure which behavior she should address first._

_Mark took her silence as her expectation that he should continue talking. He wasn't sure what to say, when he realized there was something else he had to confess. "I didn't use my words today. I just hit him."_

_Carolyn took the information in almost absentmindedly, still trying to figure out what to say next. Oh, that child was going to get such a talking to after dinner! Then she remembered that she'd gotten to an important part of her conversation with Mark. "Did you ever sucker punch Derek like this before today?"_

_"No, ma'am!" Mark was relieved to be able to answer that question with a clear conscience._

_"I'm glad." Carolyn smiled at him, and Mark relaxed for the first time since he'd walked in the door._

_Carolyn marveled at Mark's restraint. She was pretty sure she would have slapped anyone who'd gone around saying such things about her at that age. "You'd be tempted to slap them now," whispered a tiny little voice in the back of her head, but she refused to be distracted. Her focus was on healing the breach between the two boys. She walked over to where Mark was standing and ruffled his hair. _

_"You know, sweetheart, Derek doesn't mean to be mean. He made a mistake—several mistakes—by telling other people those lies about you and not listening when you told him to stop. Can you forgive him?" _

_Mark wasn't so sure he wanted to answer yes. The humiliation and anger still burned brightly, but the consolation of having Derek labeled as someone who made mistakes helped, as did Mrs. Shepherd's sympathy. Finally, he nodded yes and was rewarded by a kiss on the forehead._

_"I'm proud of you," she said. "It takes real strength to be able to forgive someone." _

_Mark colored brightly, unused to such compliments. Carolyn wished she could end the conversation there but there were other things they needed to discuss, and the kids weren't going to wait forever for their dinners._

_"Mark, finish putting everything in the salad bowl while I take care of the chicken and then sit down. We have a few more things to talk about."_

_Mark moved quickly to finish cutting the last few slices of tomato and toss the completed salad. He sat down with a light heart, not really minding that he was about to find out about his punishment. Nothing, he thought, could diminish the warm glow he was feeling._

_Well, almost nothing._

_"Mark, why were you talking to Taisha about her bra?" _

_Oh._

_Curiosity and mortification waged a fierce battle for control over Mark's response. Clearly, he'd done something wrong and would have preferred to pretend it hadn't happened, but he still didn't know why everything had been so weird and why what he'd said had been so wrong. Maybe Mrs. Shepherd could explain it to him._

_"Last week, when I went out to dinner with my parents. . . ." Carolyn nodded to show that she remembered as he continued, "my father was talking to our waitress and he said something about her bra making him hot. I didn't understand it, but the waitress smiled and told my father thank you. When Taisha came over, I could see that she had something under her blouse, so I asked her if her bra was making her hot." Mark looked straight at Carolyn. His misery and confusion were plain to see. "I thought I was saying something nice. Why did they get mad? Why did Taisha call me dirty?" _

_Carolyn grimaced ruefully. She'd been right about the source of the trouble. Now she had to figure out a way to explain the rules of common courtesy without trashing the boy's father. "Mother Mary, guide my tongue," she prayed as she turned the flame off under the carrots and sat down at the table next to Mark._

_"Mark, have you ever wondered why we have rules about knocking before going into each other's bedrooms?"_

_"Derek says it's because of privacy."_

_"Derek's right," Carolyn nodded firmly. "There are certain parts of our bodies—the parts covered by our underwear—that we keep private. We also keep our underwear private. That's why we wear bathrobes when we need to leave our bedrooms before we get dressed."_

_Mark nodded. That's the way things worked at the Shepherd house._

_"Taisha's bra is part of her underwear. When you started asking her about it, you were talking about something private as if it were public. Understand?" _

_There was no end to these dumb rules, was there? "So it's rude to talk about underwear?" _

_It was a terrible oversimplification, Carolyn thought, but it would have to do for now. "That's right," she said, relieved at the minimal amount of explanation she thought she'd gotten away with until she saw the frown on Mark's face._

_"But I heard you asking Derek the other day about whether his underwear still fits."_

_"That's different. Parents are allowed to talk about underwear. Someday, when you're a father, you and your wife will be asking your children about their underwear, their socks, their shoes, and all the rest of their clothes so you'll know when it's time to buy more. In the meantime, don't talk to any of the girls about their underwear." _

_Okay. That sounded like a reasonably clear—if dumb—rule, but— "Then why did my father talk to that waitress about her bra? And why did she like it, if he was being rude?"_

_"Mark, honey," she began cautiously, "I don't know whether that waitress liked what your father said."_

_"But she did. She smiled," Mark insisted._

_"Mark, I'm sure she looked as if she liked it," Carolyn said soothingly. "But the truth is, waitresses work for tips, just like hair dressers and cab drivers and lots of other people. They get their money from their customers, and when they act as if they like everything their customers do, they get more money."_

_Mark didn't like the sound of that at all. "So they lie? That's not right."_

_It was amazing how much Mark sounded like Derek with that comment, Carolyn thought as she quickly covered her smile. "It's not really lying, honey, to pretend that everyone you work for is nice. Besides, those people need that money to take care of themselves and their families."_

_"Then they should get other jobs," he said flatly. One of the very few things that made childhood bearable was the promise of eventual adulthood. He couldn't bear to contemplate an endless future of being forced to say whatever the person in charge wanted him to say. "I won't ever get a job like that," he promised himself aloud._

_"From your mouth to God's ears," intoned Carolyn, and she smiled, relieved to have that part of the discussion over. There remained only one more matter._

_"Mark, you do know we still have to talk about making things right, don't you?" asked Carolyn, watching carefully to gauge his attitude, as she still had not decided on the length of his punishment._

_"Yeah. I know I have to apologize to Derek. And Taisha," he added reluctantly, not enjoying the thought of giving her another chance to yell at him, but knowing Mrs. Shepherd expected him to try making things right with her, too. "And you. I'm sorry I was rude to Taisha and hit Derek." Mark looked Carolyn in the eye as he spoke, both impressing her and persuading her to shave time off his "sentence."_

_"Apology accepted." She smiled and ceremonially shook his hand. _

_They both knew what was coming next. Mark squared his shoulders and lifted his head to prepare. _

_"Okay, tough guy, here it goes," Carolyn said briskly, not missing his quasi-military stance. "I'm not going to punish you for being rude to Taisha because that was just a misunderstanding—another one of those cases where your parents' house equals your parents' rules and the Shepherd house equals the Shepherd rules. Got it?" Mark nodded again._

_"But hitting Derek? That's another matter. You know that one of the most important rules in this house is using your words instead of your hands when you're angry—and that throwing the first punch is always wrong. If the person you're arguing with doesn't listen, then you refer the matter to me. I am the judge, jury, and executioner in this house. Is this clear?" Mark's nod came more slowly this time, and Carolyn knew why. Only under extraordinary circumstances would Mark tattle on Derek, and he was just coming to realize that that was exactly what he'd done. Well, the boys would have to work that out for themselves. This had gone way too far for her not to have another discussion with Derek, and she could scarcely pretend she'd gotten the information from someone else._

_"Your punishment is: You're grounded for the next two weeks. That means no going out after school with anyone but your parents or me. It also means no television and no telephone unless it's school related or an emergency. Can I trust you to obey these rules when you're at your parents' home?"_

_"Yes, ma'am!" Mark couldn't believe his good fortune. This was way less punishment than he'd expected._

_"And," she added before Mark could actually break out in a smile, "for those same two weeks you're on KP whenever you're here. If you're asked to help with making a meal, you'll help. You'll also be responsible for setting the table, clearing the table, and washing all dishes afterward. Given that you're usually here several nights a week, Nancy and Kathleen should be very grateful for the free time you're giving them."_

_"Yes, ma'am," came Mark's reply, a little less spiritedly. While this was still a far better outcome than he'd originally imagined, it did mean a lot of extra work._

_"Mark?" Carolyn waited until she had his full attention. "Just in case you start thinking that you'd be better off not coming over for these next two weeks, let me assure you that I can find much worse chores than KP as a substitute punishment," she finished with an evil grin._

_He nodded back with a (very) small grin of his own. He'd seen her handiwork._

_"C'mere," she ordered, standing up, grabbing Mark by the shoulders, and pulling him in for a long hug. After a few moments, she said, "There's one more thing."_

_Mark stiffened and looked up, starting to get nervous. What was left?_

_"I want you to promise me something," she said solemnly. Carolyn fervently hoped she would be able to impress upon Mark the importance of not fighting with Derek. Mark's height and weight advantage over Derek had forced her to become very strict about enforcing a ban on all fighting in anger. (The irony was not lost on her that Derek was the boy who started most of the fights. Even so, all the other fights had resulted from an escalation of a verbal argument. This sucker punch troubled her deeply. If Mark had become willing to let his fists do his talking for him, she'd have to restrict the amount of unsupervised time the boys could spend together or risk serious injury to Derek.)_

_Mark started nodding yes, but she stopped him with a raised finger. "Don't say yes until you've heard what I want you to promise, because I don't want your promise unless you really mean it. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes, ma'am."_

_Carolyn cupped his chin in her hand and looked him directly in the eye. "I know Derek can be can be very annoying sometimes and hurt your feelings whether he means to or not. But no matter what Derek does, I want you to promise me that you'll never hit him like that again. I love you both very much, and I don't want to see either of you getting hurt. Can you make that promise?"_

_Given the intensity of her gaze, it would have been beyond Mark's power to say no even if he'd wanted to. "Yes."_

_Mark didn't remember much of what happened after that point. Mrs. Shepherd called everyone down to help with getting dinner on the table and got permission from his parents to send him home later than usual that evening without letting them know the real reason why. Before dinner, Amy thrust a drawing of multi-colored squiggles at him and insisted that they would make him feel better. He didn't quite understand the logic behind it until he heard Amy explaining to her mother that she'd given him Derek's "feel-better" puppy picture because Derek said so. This earned Derek a silent hug from his mother and a shoulder shove from Mark. Last but certainly not least, about ten minutes after Mark started washing the dishes, Derek showed up and told him that he, too, had been grounded and would be on KP for the next two weeks whenever Mark was around._

**divider-divider-divider**

Mark came to his senses, realizing that not only hadn't he been hitting the heavy bag for several minutes, but that his arms were too exhausted to continue. It must have taken over an hour for him to get to that point. He went back to the desk to turn in his gloves, knowing that Chief Ramuschak would have his ass in a sling for endangering his hands by spending such a long time on the heavy bag, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He considered his next move. It was too early to go to the hospital, and going to a bar just didn't feel right. He needed to stop thinking, and alcohol had only a fifty-fifty shot at succeeding unless he drank himself all the way to unconsciousness—and he didn't want to do that, just in case Addison changed her mind and called him home. He decided to run laps with his iPod on maximum volume; maybe if he cranked it up high enough it would drown out his thoughts.

_Darling you got to let me know  
Should I stay or should I go?  
If you say that you are mine  
I'll be here 'til the end of time  
So you got to let me know  
Should I stay or should I go?  
_

_Always tease tease tease  
You're happy when I'm on my knees  
One day is fine, next day is black  
So if you want me off your back  
Well come on and let me know  
Should I stay or should I go? _

The Clash

Mark slowed down just long enough to fast forward to the next song. Although the driving beat of the old punk rock hit was fine for pacing himself while running laps, the band was The Clash, another reminder of the one person he'd most like to forget. Even after all these years, it irritated him that Derek called The Clash his favorite band. The little band geek hadn't even known The Clash existed until Mark forced him to listen to some real music.

Mark shook his head. All he'd wanted was to work his way up to a decent endorphin level so he could stop thinking, but his brain wouldn't cooperate. He'd already sweated through his clothing thoroughly enough to need two water breaks, but his "runner's high" remained stubbornly out of reach. That trip down memory lane had landed him in a quicksand of painful memories he'd have given anything to avoid. Remembering what it had been like to be part of Derek's family had been a favorite memory, but the bottom line was that he'd never been a real Shepherd. Despite his former honorary family membership, they all, even Derek—hell, _especially Derek_—were lost to him. He couldn't imagine they'd want anything to do with him after what he'd done.

So who was left that he could call family? His mother was dead-and even if she hadn't died, she was last person he would have wanted to be around. And as for his father-he hadn't died yet, but that was a moot point, since what was left of his father lived on the living room couch.

Mark shook his head. While Elaine Sloan was alive, Bennett Sloan had been the textbook example of a successful man. A lawyer who made a practice out of defending clients other lawyers might prefer not to represent-he specialized in RICO defenses-the elder Sloan worked hard and partied harder. Rich, smart, funny, and charming to a degree that should have been called illegal, he attracted more clients and girlfriends in a month than most men could handle in half a year. He claimed that his work demanded that he attend all sorts of corporate functions-often with his wife on his arm as an accessory. Home was a place to store things like clothes and other personal possessions that didn't fit into that spacious corner office. On those rare occasions that the elder Sloan came home for longer than it took to catch a few hours of sleep, he spent his time bragging about how famous and/or powerful his clients were and how unorthodox his courtroom strategies had been in securing their acquittals.

The lifestyle had its perks for Elaine Sloan-plenty of money to support a completely self-indulgent lifestyle as long as she accepted her husband's almost total absence from the rest of her life. Because complaining about his absences got her nothing but further reductions in the amount of time her husband spent at home, Elaine learned to put up a good front and channeled her frustration into (among other things) competing with her son for her husband's attention. It hadn't been much of a challenge. Bennett Sloan's defining characteristics had been impatience and arrogance; childish matters-including his own child-never held much interest for him. During adolescence, Mark had fantasized about becoming friends with his father once he graduated from medical school and had proven himself as a doctor, but his father's hemorrhagic stroke not too long after his mother's death put an end to that fantasy. The resulting physical disabilities were bad enough, but the short-term memory loss and dementia made any contact between them not only painful, but also useless. Aside from assigning oversight of the money spent on his father's care to his business manager and signing occasional pieces of paper, Mark lived as if his father were already dead.

Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins? They had existed, but only peripherally in the existence of the young Mark Sloan. Mark had stopped attending family events once he'd started college, and besides, he couldn't think of a single relation worth the effort of reaching out.

He grunted. Running clearly wasn't working; it was time to switch to another activity. Given how hard he'd already worked his arms and legs, the cardio and weight rooms didn't seem particularly inviting. Tennis or racquetball? Whacking balls spit out from a machine wasn't enough of a challenge to take his mind off his thoughts, and finding a partner would mean talking, so that was off the table, too.

Mark briefly considered riding his Ducati Multistrada, but ultimately rejected the idea. Barreling through midtown traffic on his motorcycle offered the seductive distractions of high speed and traffic still dense enough to force his focus on the road instead of his own thoughts, but retrieving his bike meant returning to Derek and Addison's brownstone—bad idea. Eventually, he'd rent space for the bike and get it out of there, but not tonight.

Weariness settled on Mark like a suffocating blanket. He felt as if he'd suddenly run a marathon instead of some laps. He checked his watch to discover it was almost ten o'clock—late enough to go to Hanratty's, order a double scotch, and call it a night. With a stifled sigh, he checked his cell phone again to make sure he hadn't missed any messages before trudging off to the showers.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 2A:** Regarding the "blood brotherhood" I ascribe to young Mark and Derek: Mark is open about his desire to resume a formerly close relationship with Derek when he first comes to Seattle. He tries to apologize to Derek for the affair (deleted scene, "Yesterday" [2.18]), claims that Derek is his only family ("Six Days, Part II" [3.11] and "Oh, the Guilt" [3.5])-at least until Sloan Riley (a.k.a. Sloan Sloan) comes along ("Holidaze" [6.10]). In "A Change is Gonna Come" [4.1], Mark claims that he came to Seattle not to reclaim Addison but to "get [Derek] back." On the other hand, Derek (for complicated but understandable reasons) is less effusive in his description of his past relationship with Mark. However, in a heart-to-heart with Richard Webber, Derek admits that Mark was a brother to him when they were growing up ("Let the Angels Commit" [3.16]). Since both men describe their early relationship as a "family" relationship, I decided to make their brotherhood a "real" one.

**Author's Note Chapter 2B:** Regarding the references to religion: I've no idea whether the Shepherd home was a religious one. The only hint of spirituality ever shown by Derek was his seeming gratitude when the husband of another victim of the ferry crash offered to pray for Meredith ("Some Kind of Miracle" [3.17]). But we have seen Mark respond to crises with prayer. For example, in "Song beneath the Song" (7.18), when Arizona asks Mark to say a prayer for Callie and Sofia after the car accident, Mark says that he hasn't stopped praying since yesterday. And in "Death and All His Friends" (6.24, in an extended scene), when Mark is consoling Lexie after Alex has been taken away in an ambulance to Seattle Presbyterian after the Gary Clark rampage, Mark says that they'll pray for Alex because it's the only thing he can think of to do right then.

As for which faith tradition Mark follows? shrug Shonda's never been specific. However, I'm assuming that whatever religious upbringing he got was in the home where he was "practically raised" ("Sympathy for the Devil" [5.12]) rather than the home where he was regularly left to fend for himself so that his parents could socialize ("In the Midnight Hour" [5.9]). And, given that "Shepherd" could well be an Irish name, Carolyn Shepherd's age, Derek's reference to his Irish maternal grandparents (Mahoney is his mother's maiden name - "Save Me" [1.8]), and Patrick Dempsey's Black Irish features (which he kindly shares with Derek), I'm assuming that Mark and Derek were raised with at least some regular exposure to Roman Catholicism. As a native New Yorker, I've known a great many Irish-Americans-and almost all of them were culturally Catholic, even if they didn't practice their faith in terms of regularly attending Mass and participating in the sacraments. In part because of the prejudice they initially faced in America as well as their desire for a spiritual home, many Irish American Catholics of earlier generations remained active in their churches for social as well as religious reasons. (Turning a church into a social center-in addition to whatever spiritual role it plays in the life of the community-is characteristic of many groups, immigrant and otherwise, who are outsiders to mainstream culture and power structures.) As for today's Irish-Americans (for whatever the generalization is worth, since it's based on nothing more than my personal experience), it's been only the past couple of generations who've felt comfortable enough to move out of the cocoons of their local parishes in large numbers and explore other faith traditions (including agnosticism/atheism).

P.S. Three of Derek's sisters have collectively given birth to fourteen children ("Save Me" [1.8] and "Superfreak" [7.3])-an unusually high reproductive rate for women with demanding careers as doctors. I thought about including the stereotype of Catholics having large families because of the papal ban on most forms of birth control as another piece of evidence in favor of casting the Shepherds as Roman Catholics, but felt the evidence was a bit too circumstantial for inclusion in the main argument.

**Author's Note Chapter 2C**: The reference to Mark's mother taking him shopping for bras is an oblique reference to the possibility that Mark is an incest survivor-or at the very least, that he was subjected to some inappropriately early sexual behavior during his childhood. He certainly fits the profile during his first few seasons on _GA_-compulsive womanizing, low self-esteem, poor ability to create friendships, and a rejection of all connection to his biological family. It also explains why he would define Derek as his only family and Carolyn as the woman who practically raised him—rejecting one parent for abusing him and the other for not protecting him. Now, I'm not claiming that incest is the only possible reason for Mark's character traits-but I think it is a reasonable one. Too bad Shonda didn't share more of Mark's back-story before his untimely demise.

I give credit for this insight to CitronPresse, whose fic, _And Then There's Life_, explores this idea.

**Author's Note Chapter 2D:** Mark's naïveté about the salacious nature of his "hot bra" comment at the age of eleven may seem unrealistic, given how early today's children acquire a façade of sexual sophistication. However, thirty-to-fortyish years ago, American popular culture was not as hypersexualized as it is today (a combination of changing sexual mores as well as the changes in popular media due to the ubiquity not only of cable/satellite television stations but also the internet). In addition, there was more of a consensus that children needed to be protected from certain aspects of adulthood instead of initiation as soon as possible through the marketing of clothing, toys, and mass media that have them advertising their sexuality before they even know what it is.

Sure, Mark was an "early bloomer" ("Superfreak" [6.20]), and his changing biology meant that he was _starting_ to feel things he wasn't quite ready to process. And the possible seductive behavior of his mother I mentioned above would have made things even more complicated. But IMHO, an eleven-year-old Mark would not yet have had the tools he needed to act on those feeling in any but the clumsiest ways.

Obviously, his skills at seduction improved over time. ;)

**Author's Note Chapter 2E:** I've decided that Mark's reference to his "bike" ("Oh, the Guilt" [3.5]) stored at the Shepherd brownstone means a motorcycle, not a bicycle, because I think a motorcycle is more suited to Mark's restless nature as a constant seeker of physical sensation.

For those folks who think it's unrealistic for Mark to be lugging over 400 lbs. of motorcycle up and down the long front staircase of the Shepherd brownstone ("Time Has Come Today" [3.1]), I agree. But New York City's brownstones were built for the upper classes of the 19th century. They usually have a street-level service entrance at the side or back of the building for chores like receiving deliveries and taking out the trash; I'm assuming that Mark's bike is stored near that entrance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Warning**: Explicit (although not graphic) sexual content in this chapter. Mature readers only.

**Additional Warning**: The phrase "freshman orientation" is used despite the current consensus that the term is both sexist and Eurocentric. I'm assuming that that our favorite Seattle Grace/Seattle Grace Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital went to college before such activities were renamed as "first year introductions to campus life," and so I'm using the old term for historical accuracy.

**Note to Guest Reviewer:** Thanks ever so much for spotting that error on Mark's middle name. It's fixed now. (Good guess on the timeline. I've been working on this story on and off-more off than on-for five years.)

In this story, I put Derek in the middle of his sisters-Kathleen, Nancy, Derek, Lizzie, and Amy-since the show has been contradictory in the way it shows the relationships. I can see Derek as acting as if he is the oldest; judgmental attitudes are stereotypically associated with oldest children, and Derek is nothing if not a judgmental character. I also think his drive to be the "knight in shining whatever" and his devastation when he realized he couldn't save Meredith if she didn't want to be saved also plays into a need for control associated with oldest children, since parents often rely on them to help to some extent with caring for their younger siblings. In Derek's case, I think these tendencies would have been exacerbated after his father's murder; people often unthinkingly exhort only sons and eldest sons to be "the man of the house" after the death of a father. no matter how age-inappropriate such exhortations might be. Besides, I think that a history of Derek trying to act as an inappropriately quasi-parental figure to his sisters would generate a certain amount of tension along with the love, and would account for how aggressively they tease him.

No, I haven't seen Painkiller Jane. Netflix has a series called Painkiller Jane, but ED is not mentioned in the cast list. Too bad; it sounds like fun.

**Move On**

Perhaps

Chapter 3

Addison sighed as she slipped into Mark's terrycloth bathrobe. She'd taken a long, hot shower—her third of the day—in the hope that it would soothe her nerves and her cramps, only to be disappointed on both fronts. She looked at her prunified fingers with disgust. "You're almost forty," she addressed her fingers. "A few decades more and you'll look like this all the time. What will you do then, hmmm?" She turned her hands around, inspecting both front and back closely. "Old and alone. No baby. No man. Just the ten of you stuck with the rest of me."

She shook her hands briskly, as if to shake off her crazed babbling. "Talking to your fingers, Addison?" she thought. "When Mark comes back, he'll be signing you onto the psych ward." Addison mused briefly about the possibility of a 72-hour hold. It had its advantages. Mark couldn't hold her responsible for what she'd done if she was declared temporarily insane.

"You must be _insane_ to be thinking this way!" she lectured her image in the bathroom mirror matter-of-factly as she started drying her hair with a fluffy beige towel. "This is Mark you're talking about. He'll yell, you'll yell, he'll storm out, get drunk, screw another nurse, and then we'll pretend the past few days never happened. Right? Right." The speech would have been more convincing if she hadn't seen the apprehension lurking in the eyes of her reflection. Despite her bravado, Addison couldn't escape the notion that she'd passed a point of no return, having alienated in a few short weeks the two men who'd loved her and killed what could have become her own child as part of the bargain. Surely, she couldn't expect Mark to stick around after what she'd done. Maybe it wasn't such a stretch of the imagination to imagine spending her old age alone with her prunified fingers. Karma could be a bitch.

"Enough!" she exploded, throwing the towel into the hamper and then cinching her bathrobe with enough vigor to earn a protest from her sore stomach muscles. "I am Addison Forbes Montgomery Shepherd, a board certified OB/GYN with fellowships in maternal fetal medicine and medical genetics as well as one of the foremost neonatal surgeons in this country. I'm doctor enough to know that I was barely pregnant. I will not let these stupid hormones destroy what's left of my mind."

Addison decided she should eat something. Consoling herself with the thought that she could always call for a delivery from that Thai place around the corner if Mark's purchases were unappetizing, she headed toward the kitchen.

The contents of the cupboards met with her approval, especially the Saltines. They might come in handy. The contents of the refrigerator—well, Mark had certainly been busy. In addition to their usual staples (milk, green juice, orange juice, fruits, yoghurt, and coffee), it looked like Mark had bought out the deli counter. Cold cuts, cheeses, _three_ types of pickle—she certainly wouldn't have been in danger of letting her salt levels drop, she thought dryly. The most interesting part came when she opened the freezer and saw three pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. It wasn't what she'd normally eat for comfort food, but it was a decadent sort of self-indulgence, and _that_ was exactly what she was in the mood for. Frozen juju, right? With a shrug, she grabbed the Phish Food and a spoon and decided she had what she needed for dinner.

Wandering into the living room, she turned on the radio for WQXR, sighing with pleasure when she recognized Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. She could do with a bit of one of her favorite composers just then. She curled up on the couch, took a big spoonful of ice cream, and waited for the music to carry her away to some peaceful place. Unfortunately, peace was not to be so easily found. The image of Mark's face as he'd waited by the door—clearly hoping that she would change her mind—wouldn't leave her. Irrationally—although she would have claimed she wasn't truly irrational since she recognized how irrational she was being—she was angry with him for his feelings. Loving her. Wanting her. Wanting to be there for her. He was _Mark_—manwhore extraordinaire, incapable of dating a woman for more than a few weeks, and never exclusively for more than one night—if that. Why should his relationship with her have been any different? Somehow, the situation just didn't seem fair.

Addison regarded the ice cream, wryly acknowledging how happy it would have made her if Derek had been the one to buy it for her. On the other hand, she couldn't even remember the last time Derek had bought her anything, so. . . .

She shoved the container onto the coffee table; its chocolaty rich goodness had suddenly become cloying. "Damn," she said wearily, not really caring whether it was the ice cream, Derek, Mark, and/or herself she was consigning to perdition. Everything had just gone to hell, and she had no clue whatsoever as to how to get out.

_How did this happen? Addison thought back to the night their affair started—another night the three of them were supposed to go out for dinner, another night Derek stood them up for yet another surgery. Another night of drinking pre-dinner cocktails while Mark let her complain about the travesty her marriage had become. Another night that should have ended with him kissing her on the forehead and then leaving to see if he could manage to score a "date" in what was left of the evening. Another night to feel lonely and useless. Another night—but _that_ night, it was . . . different. When he'd held her while she cried that time, his touch felt . . . _different_, somehow firmer, and his breathing had quickened. _

_She looked up at him quizzically and saw . . . Desire. Passion. Need. All those things that had been missing in Derek's eyes for so long, she saw in Mark's, and they transformed her resentful misery into something more primal, an overpowering longing to fulfill some of her own needs. She needed to feel desirable. Desired. She needed to have a man in her bed who wanted her. And somehow, Mark had magically become that man. Addison saw no need to question her good luck. Someone wanted her, even if Derek didn't. Derek should know that someone thought she was worth wanting. Derek should be here to see this. Screw Derek._

_She could see Mark becoming more uncomfortable with each passing second, the moment of passion being replaced by confusion and panic. If she didn't recapture his attention right now, he'd leave. As he began to lean toward her for the ritual good-bye peck at the front door, she turned her face upward and grabbed his face with both her hands as she held on to him in for a long, passionate kiss. He stiffened at first, but as her tongue played with his lips, he let her in little by little. The next thing she knew, he had his hands in her hair, and she happily abandoned herself to the pure bliss of feeling wanted again. _

_Her memory of what happened after that point is hazy—and even now, she isn't sure how much of the haze is due to alcohol, passion, and/or a guilty conscience. She can't even remember the moment when they decided to have sex, although she's reasonably sure she remembers throwing Mark's jacket on the floor before they went into the bedroom._

That was something she really appreciated about Mark, that he knew how sex could be deliciously dirty. Oh, sex with Derek was good—even wonderful—when it happened. He was a very considerate lover who never would have dreamed of ending a session of lovemaking without making sure she'd been fully sated. Back in the days when he'd actually taken the time to have a sex life instead of devoting himself solely to his career, he'd been quite creative in matters of time, and place, and technique—but those weren't the only things that made him good. What she missed most about being in Derek's arms was the way he'd made her feel loved—that she was the only woman he would ever love and that he'd want to keep her in his arms forever. She'd had no reason at all to complain. Really no reason at all.

But Mark—Mark had opened up a completely new world to her. Well, not _completely_ new. She'd known there were people in the world who had sex that wasn't, for want of a better word, tame. Civilized? Ugh. What was it Mark had called sex with Derek? Vanilla. That was it! Vanilla sex—which was a rather odd combination of concepts, she had to admit—but if she had to compare the sex she had with Mark with the sex she had with Derek, Mark would definitely be the chocolate to Derek's vanilla.

Addison's adolescence as a freakishly tall, uncoordinated band geek with braces and a lisp had left her certain of her own unattractiveness. Going away to college had let her experiment with her persona to some degree, but she wasn't convinced that she'd made any real improvements until Derek convinced her that _he_ saw her as a beautiful woman. A special woman. A woman who deserved special treatment because she was beautiful. The old-fashioned manners he'd learned at home, his protectiveness—made her feel special. Although she wanted and expected him to treat her as his equal in their professional lives, in their personal lives, she liked playing the lady to his gentleman. But sometimes—sometimes in bed—Addison didn't want to be a lady, and she couldn't quite figure out how to communicate this to Derek. On those rare occasions she would bring up an idea or a fantasy that pushed beyond the boundaries of their usual lovemaking by saying she'd heard about it from a patient or some other person Derek was unlikely to have a conversation with, she'd always feel obliged to preface or conclude the observation with a laugh or a mocking comment for fear that Derek might think less of her for wanting to explore the darker side of her sexuality. And Derek just laughed along with her.

But Mark—mmmm. Mark's . . . the range of Mark's experience was . . . well, _disgusting_, quite frankly, but it did offer some advantages—chief among them being the fact that he couldn't be either shocked or judgmental. Immediately following Derek's departure, Addison had vacillated between bouts of hysterical tears and vicious tirades against all things Derek, including his "puritanical" taste in sex. The next very evening, Mark had taken her to a shop in Greenwich Village that had quite literally taken her breath away as she stared at the many aisles of costumes and "toys." He'd then handed her his credit card and promised to join her in whatever fantasies she wanted to indulge.

Mark offered to wait outside in case she wanted to surprise him, but Addison firmly refused to be left alone. So, they wandered the aisles together while Mark explained some of the more esoteric items. In the end, she didn't purchase much. But the trip had convinced her that Mark truly was open to anything she might propose, and she'd had an exciting time experimenting with a few mild bondage and S & M games. (And those didn't even include the sex injuries when they _weren't_ playing S & M games. The man was a real genius at figuring out mind-blowingly erotic ways to push past her body's comfort zone.) She'd also let Mark taken dozens of nude and near-nude pictures of her; some of the costumes and poses were her idea, but the majority of them were his. (Although she'd insist on deleting all of them from his camera a day or two after each session, she knew she'd never be able to erase them from her memory—and if Mark was to be believed, his, either.) Mark's open, unflagging interest in whatever she proposed and his perpetual insistence that "this" (whatever the activity was) was the hottest he'd ever seen her, whether she was dressed in leather or lace, healed wounds she hadn't realized she owned. (Okay, the man could be turned on automatically, like a light bulb, but still.) With Mark, she had felt sexy in an I-want-to-have-have-sex-with-you-because-you're-so -hot way, not an I-love-you-therefore-I-want-to-express-my-love-by- having-sex-with-you way. With Mark, she could express her inner slut and still be a lady, and the experience was intoxicating.

"Except it wasn't that, after all," she thought, chagrined. "Mark loves me, too. Or At least he thinks he does. Unbelievable." Here she'd thought she'd turned herself into some kind of _femme fatale_, and all she'd done was make him fall in love with her. She was verge of crying from sheer disappointment and frustration when she remembered their last photo shoot just three days earlier. Mark's frank admiration and enjoyment of the way her body looked—and the "punishment" he'd inflicted afterward as payment for her "naughtiness"—included an erotic intensity she'd never experienced before, and she shivered with remembered heat. Whether Mark loved her or not, sex with him was an entirely different experience than sex with Derek.

"Too bad I can't keep both of them," she thought with a crooked smile.

Addison got up to return the softening ice cream back to the freezer. Then, deciding soup was the comfort food she craved, she called in her order of _tom kha gai_ to the Thai restaurant. That done, she stared fixedly at the phone, wondering whether Mark would call to check up on her, even though she had told him she wanted to be alone. "What is _wrong_ with you?' she asked herself, softly knocking her head against the living room wall. "You just had an abortion because you know this man is not someone you can build a life with. And—he's probably going to kick you out anyway once he finds out what you've done. Start packing, Addison. It's time to move on with the rest of your life."

Despite her intuition that she'd probably made her first sensible statement of the day, Addison remained motionless. Although she'd had to admit to herself that she didn't want a long-term future with Mark, she also had to admit she didn't want to be alone, either. Besides, where would she go? The brownstone was unthinkable; she couldn't set foot inside the place without remembering the night Derek found them in bed together. A hotel? Too cold and impersonal. Her family? Hell, no! She hadn't yet told them anything about what had happened, and she'd be damned before she presented herself to the Captain and Bizzy like a homeless waif and admit that Derek had left her and she had nowhere to go.

Where else was left? Savvy? Oh, Savvy! Addison flushed uneasily because she'd been ducking her best friend's messages ever since things blew up; she might not be one of Savvy's favorite people right now. Plus, she wasn't quite sure how Savvy would react to news of the affair; she could be rather judgmental about such things. Still, she and Weiss did have room to put her up, and it would be wonderful finally to talk things over with someone.

"Hi, Savvy! It's me, Addison. . . . . Ah, it's a good thing I introduced myself because you'd forgotten what my voice sounds like? Funny. . . . Yeah, well, life's been . . . complicated, lately. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. . . . No, everything is fine-just complicated. (Addison crossed her fingers at that one.) How are things with you? . . . Can we get together for lunch tomorrow? . . . Your cafeteria or mine? . . . You want to meet at Serendipity?" Addison frowned. "Sav, is everything okay with you and Weiss?"

Addison listened to her best friend's "fine"; it sounded as convincing as her own had been. No wonder she wanted to meet at the ice cream parlor masquerading as a restaurant. "O.K. See you at 12:30. . . . Give my love to Weiss. . . . Yes, I'll give your love to Derek as soon as I see him. . . . O.K. . . . Good-night."

As Addison hung up the phone, she made a mental note to ask her admin to clear her afternoon schedule. It sounded like it was going to be a long lunch. Besides, she was supposed to be taking it easy for a few days, anyway. That being decided, Addison spent a few minutes speculating about the cause of Savvy's distress, but couldn't come up with any likely suspects that she wouldn't talk about on the phone, other than it probably involved her husband. Fear of being eavesdropped on would explain her uncommunicativeness. She decided to put off any further speculation. Tomorrow held time enough to deal with Savvy's problem.

Dismissing Savvy's problems left Addison with nothing to ponder but her own problems. Bad idea. In an effort to distract herself, she turned off the radio and turned on the television, but a couple of minutes of channel surfing failed to turn up anything sufficiently compelling to distract her from her own thoughts. She then wandered out to the balcony, taking care to leave the door propped wide open so that she'd hear the doorman calling to verify that she'd ordered something once the delivery guy arrived.

The gentle June breeze felt good, as did the peace and quiet afforded by being over thirty stories above New York traffic. As she stared back inside at the condo, she had to admit Mark had a lovely home even if the decorator she'd recommended had been forced to work around that ugly futon couch she and Derek had passed on to him shortly before the wedding. She'd done a good job of using the print on the futon cover without making the color palette overpowering. Dark browns and black were plentifully represented in the furniture and carpeting, but they were balanced with white walls and plenty of chrome and white in the furniture so that the overall effect was sophisticated rather than gloomy. If it weren't for the lack of adequate closet space, well. . . . She was going to miss the apartment itself as well as the convenience of living in a full-service building. And Mark, too, of course.

Addison shook her head ruefully. How did Mark get to be an afterthought? How did she get from destroying her marriage over a one-night stand with this man to barely thinking about him at all? She sighed. If only he weren't so damned sexy that she found it hard to keep her thoughts anywhere but in the moment. . . . No. Scratch that thought. She just plain found it hard to think at all whenever he was around.

An involuntary smirk curved Addison's lips as she remembered how well Mark had kept her from thinking the previous evening. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Mark's body on hers, his warm hands tracing a teasing path around her nipples, and then his lips ever so slowly nibbling their way down her throat and then her cleavage, her body arching under his touch as he-

"Enough!" she scolded, forcing herself to take a deep breath. "Mark's expertise is not the problem here."

Returning to the problem she was supposed to be trying to solve, Addison flushed guiltily as she thought about the way she'd told Mark she was pregnant and then gone ahead with the abortion without letting him have any part in making her decision about terminating the pregnancy. No matter how she felt about the procedure, it would have been easier on Mark if she'd kept him in the dark.

"How could I have known?" Addison protested to her suddenly guilty conscience, annoyed to be put in such a perverse position. "He's Mark! The only contribution he ever made as a parent was to pay for three abortions. He never wanted a child before. How was I supposed to know this time would be different?"

As the silent minutes lengthened, Addison begrudgingly admitted that she could have read the signs differently-maybe. 20-20 hindsight and all that. She could have at least admitted the possibility that there was something different about Mark's feelings for her if she'd ever taken the time to go beyond her previous assumptions. The Mark she'd spent time with in the last two months was different from the Mark she'd known before. Oh, he'd still been _Mark_-cockily boasting about the many ways he'd pleased many women over the years-but that hadn't stopped him from focusing all (O.K., most) of his efforts on pleasing her. Even taking care of her-which was a talent she hadn't suspected Mark Sloan would have had for anyone but himself.

She thought back again to the night they'd been discovered—hearing Derek yell her name after he'd slammed open the bedroom door. She'd screamed, and in the split second it took for Mark to stop moving, she'd shoved him to the side and screamed at him to get out. The three of them stood paralyzed until Mark, after carefully looking at the both of them, acceded to her wishes and retired to the bathroom, allowing them some privacy—not that it mattered. The ensuing fight had been loud enough for him to hear the majority of what came after. By the time it was all over, while she was still huddled in hysterics at the bottom of the stairs, a fully dressed Mark came for her. Once she'd cried herself out, he carried her into the living room and then went outside to collect the sodden clothing and bedding. After that, he forced her to get dressed and come with him to the condo because he didn't want to leave her alone. In the following days, he'd taken care of getting her things picked up and making sure that there had been plenty of . . . distractions from her worries about Derek and the future. He'd certainly been an excellent distraction, Addison thought. She was still amazed that he'd been turned on by almost every single activity she'd suggested, even the ones she'd wound up not liking as much as she'd thought she might. She was grateful to him for all that he'd done for her battered self-esteem after the years of Derek's neglect.

There was the truth. She was grateful to Mark for the past few weeks, but she didn't love him. She did, damn it, still love Derek. What the hell was she doing by having an affair with Mark?

"If anyone had told me fifteen years ago that I'd be having an affair with Mark Sloan, I would have had that person committed," Addison announced to the walls around her. Over the years, she'd at first despised him as a bad influence on Derek, then fought with him for first place in Derek's affections, and eventually accepted him as a regular third wheel in their relationship. She knew having Mark in his life made Derek happy, so she tolerated the man's barbaric attitude toward women, his uncomfortable habit of being bluntly honest about matters civilized people knew to gloss over, and his occasional insinuations that Derek had been pussy-whipped into settling for domesticity.

Over time, he'd maybe even become a kind of friend, since his ubiquity at Derek's side engendered a large degree of familiarity. He'd been useful as a funny and charming addition to their dinner parties in his own right and a useful emergency date for the occasional single woman (all of whom had been warned in advance by Derek as well as herself not to take Mark's flirting seriously). He'd even become one of the limited number of people allowed to tease her without retribution as well as a person she felt comfortable calling on in emergencies, even the embarrassing ones. She'd even go so far as to say she'd developed a tolerant affection for him-and would have bet good money that he felt the same way about her. But love? Passion? How the hell did they wind up grabbing at each other like a pair of sex-starved teenagers that night? She had no clear recollection of what they were drinking, but she resolved to find out so that she'd remember never to stock it again.

The ringing telephone brought her back to the present. A few minutes later, she was back on the balcony with an open container of _tom kha gai_. Although the soup smelled as wonderful as it always had, her mood had soured her appetite, and she seriously considered just putting it away. However, after the first few spoonfuls, her body's need for nourishment convinced her otherwise. By the time she was done, the spicy, hot liquid had gone a long way toward relieving her cramps as well as awakening her appetite. In short order, she found herself putting together some prosciutto and honeydew along with some hot green tea as a follow-up.

Seated at the kitchen island with her food in front of her, Addison felt slightly less flummoxed about the past two months than she had out on the balcony, although she still had no idea how to go about fixing the mess she'd gotten herself into. She hoped Savvy would have some words of wisdom for her because she saw no way out.

What would have happened, she wondered, if she'd decided to pursue Mark instead of Derek and wound up marrying him? Would he, too, have become preoccupied with his career? She laughed mirthlessly. As good as Mark was at his job, it didn't even come close to his first preoccupation. Too bad he was like the Captain-quantity over quality.

But what if she _had_ married Mark? Would she then have chosen to have an affair with Derek? Addison restrained the urge to laugh again. Not unless one of his neurosurgeon buddies gave him a brain transplant. Derek was practically a virgin when they started having sex; there was no way he would have committed adultery even if _she'd_ wanted to.

She sighed. Might it all have worked out happily ever after if she'd chosen Mark instead of Derek the first night they'd met? Not likely-but . . . maybe? Too bad she didn't have a time machine so she could go back and see what would have happened if things had turned out differently. Actually, it would be nice if she had a time machine so she could go back and see for herself what had really happened. She'd been so excited and nervous that night that most of her "memories" consisted of what she'd been told or teased about by Mark, Derek, and Savvy.

**divider-divider-divider**

_It was the end of the first full day of freshman orientation at Bowdoin, and the Student Union's common room had been set up for a mixer—their "chance to get to know the other first-years informally," according to their RA. They'd been told that the dance started at 9:00—which, according to Mark, meant that only morons would be there before 11:00. Yet here he was at 10:00 p.m., the latest he could persuade Derek to show up._

_Mark held his tongue as Derek's gaze flickered nervously over the minimally lit room. He'd done his best to prep Derek for the event, even going so far as to insist that Derek use the hair product recommended by the barber after he'd finally convinced him to ditch the Afro he'd been sporting all through high school. And picking out his clothes. _

_"Hey, big shot," said Derek, his bravado carrying an undercurrent of resentment, "lots of guys here are wearing T-shirts. Including you. How come I'm not wearing one?"_

_"If you'd played anything more athletic than a saxophone, you wouldn't have to ask that question," was the first answer that ran through Mark's mind, but he kept it to himself. He'd put a lot of thought into a plan that would give Derek a fighting chance of walking on to the campus without branding himself as a geek. He was doing this partly for Derek's sake, partly to honor their promises to Mrs. Shepherd that they'd watch out for each other, and mostly to avoid another four years of aggravation from his jock friends about hanging out with such a nerd._

_"Look around you, Derek." Mark smiled through gritted teeth. There are only about a dozen students here. That's not a lot of anything. We're _early_. Besides, you look good."_

_Derek looked down at the button-down Oxford shirt, cuffed khakis, and loafers he was wearing, and then at Mark, his unspoken question clear. If these were the right things to wear, why wasn't Mark wearing them, too? _

_Mark realized that he'd better talk fast or Derek was going to go back to the dorm and God only knew what he'd come back in. Besides, the sooner he got Derek talking to a girl, the sooner he could cut out and cruise Brunswick's bars for a shot at some real action. "Dude, I picked that shirt because it's your favorite color."_

_"No you didn't."_

_"Yes, Derek, I did," Mark enunciated testily. _

_"But the shirt is dark blue" Derek pointed out. "My favorite color is indigo, not dark blue. Indigo is closer to purple."_

_"You have got to be kidding me." Nonplussed, Mark rallied with, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it matches your eyes. Chicks like that stuff."_

_Derek grinned and raised his fists. Mark had dressed himself in a skin-tight black T-shirt and straight-leg black jeans. "Does this mean you want me to give you a couple of black eyes?" _

_"Funny, Derek. Very funny." Derek feinted a punch or two while Mark pretended to block. Good humor restored, Mark pointed expansively toward the rest of the room. "This is a dance, little brother. The object of a dance is to meet women. As your wingman, I will help you to meet any woman here you desire. Who do we talk to first?"_

_Derek frowned momentarily, but then scanned the room. He pointed to a girl sitting off to the side and watching everyone else mingle. "Her."_

_Mark stifled a groan. Derek had good taste, but he was aiming way out of his league. A tall, leggy brunette with alabaster skin, the woman was dressed casually, but the kind of casual that cost serious money. He recognized the look from the girls at his parents' dinner parties—soft, sky blue cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders, white cotton tank top that showed off her tan, black jeans, white sandals and jewelry that looked real. Given that she was content just to stare at the stragglers who'd shown up so far, Mark guessed that she'd been dragged to the party by one of her girlfriends and was just waiting for a chance to escape. (Maybe he'd see her in town later.) Derek would be shot down before he had a chance to open his mouth._

_"Nah, you don't want her. She looks stuck up. What about her?" asked Mark, trying to redirect Derek's attention to a bubbly little blond who looked like she might try out for the cheerleading squad. Cheerleaders could be very friendly. _

_Derek looked at the blond for all of two seconds before he redirected his attention to the brunette. "No. I want her," he maintained. He looked at Mark. "You coming?"_

_Mark shrugged. They could always try the cheerleader later. "Don't say I didn't warn you," Mark cautioned him as they set off for supplies at the open bar. _

_Drinks in hand (with Derek holding a fresh white wine for the brunette), they approached her table. "Hi, I'm Mark Sloan, and this is Derek Shepherd." He deliberately broadened his smile. "And you are . . . ?"_

_"Addie. Addison. I mean," she stammered as she fidgeted with her bracelet. "Addison Forbes Montgomery. Hi." _

_Mark was surprised at the waves of nervous energy cascading from the woman in front of him, but he didn't let it show. Whatever other qualities the woman might have, being stuck up didn't seem to be among them. Maybe they'd be moving on by their own choice instead of hers. In the meantime, they were already there, so they might as well take a shot. "Well, Addison Forbes Montgomery, are these seats taken?" asked Mark._

_"Yes."_

_Mark shot Derek an I-told-you-this-one-wouldn't-work-out glance, but was cut short as Addison continued to speak._

_"No. Actually, yes and no," she prattled. "One is. Taken, that is. My friend Savvy—Savannah—is coming back. But the other two seats aren't taken." _

_Derek's expression clearly showed his relief at this vindication of his judgment. "Then, may we sit with you?" he asked eagerly. At Addison's quick nod, he set both drinks down on the table, putting the white wine next to Addison's half-full glass. "Mark—uh, I mean we—I mean I—_I_ thought you might like a fresh drink."_

_"Smooth move, Shepherd," thought Mark as he sat unobtrusively at the other side of the table. Still, it didn't seem to matter, as Addison accepted the drink gratefully and gave Derek a smile._

_Derek and Addison spent the next few minutes exchanging some background information. As it turned out, they were both from the East coast (she, Connecticut; he, New York), both had played in their respective high school bands (she, clarinet; he, saxophone), and they were both pre-med majors. As the conversation progressed and they found they had more and more in common, they relaxed. Settling back in his chair, Mark spoke when spoken to, but was content to let the conversation progress without him. If things continued to go well, he'd be able to make his escape soon. He let his gaze wander around the room in case there was anyone there he might like to speak to before he left, but his attention was soon recaptured by Derek holding out his hand for Addison's sweater. _

_"Of course you should put your sweater on if the air conditioning is too cold for you," said Derek with a smile. "Here. Let me help you put it on."_

_"Bonehead!" thought Mark with a shake of his head. Wasn't Derek bright enough to know that any girl complaining about being cold was asking him to put an arm or two around her? But Addison shook her head abashedly as she stared at her wine._

_"I'm not allowed."_

_Addison blushed at the identically curious expressions before her, but soldiered on. "Savvy—you remember Savvy, she's my girlfriend who's had _plenty_ of time to get back from the ladies' room by now," said Addison with an edge to her voice and a glance around the room. "She helped me pick out my outfit for tonight, and she made me promise that I would only tie the sweater around my shoulders, not actually wear it." _

_Mark developed a sudden coughing fit to strangle the laugh he was unable to suppress. Trust Derek to go for one of the hottest-looking women in the room and still have her turn out to be a geek who couldn't even dress herself. _

_Derek, clearly aware of what Mark was doing, shot him a venomous look before turning his attention to Addison. "Well, if your girlfriend ever shows up, I'll have to thank her because you look beautiful tonight," he began, but then stopped when Mark subtly shook his head. Realizing he should be complimenting Addison instead of her outfit, he then made a quick save. "-not that you wouldn't look beautiful in anything else. But I think you'd look even more beautiful with your sweater on." At that, Derek stood up, gently unwrapped the sweater from around her shoulders, and held it out so that he could help her into it. "So if Savvy gives you any trouble, you can tell her to see me."_

_Charmed by his smile and the gentlemanly gesture, Addison let him help her with the sweater. While her back was turned to him, Derek mouthed an angry "Shut up" to Mark, who simply grinned and gave him a thumbs up. No matter what he thought of her—and she wasn't so bad (for a geek, that is)—they seemed to like each other. It looked like he'd be able to leave soon. _

_"You know," said Derek with studied casualness once he'd gotten Addison properly seated, "best friends can be real pains in the ass when giving advice about clothes."_

_"Hey!" interjected Mark indignantly. "I don't have to sit here and take this." Inwardly, Mark grinned; it sounded like Derek was giving him his excuse to take off. _

_Now it was Addison's turn to look at Derek curiously. He nodded back. "Yeah. Me, too. He's the one responsible for this," he said, spreading his arms wide. Then he smiled again._

_"Nice going, Derek," Mark replied sarcastically, giving Derek another thumbs up Addison couldn't see. "All that hard work to make you look good gone for nothing. I think I've just heard my cue to leave." He turned to Addison. "I take responsibility only for the clothes," he informed her solemnly. "He's on his own for the rest of it." _

_Addison nodded. "Thank you. He looks wonderful" she said just as solemnly. Then she giggled._

_As Mark walked away, he could hear Derek complimenting Addison on the way her earrings matched the color of her eyes because he'd heard it was important to do that when dressing for special occasions, followed by more laughter from the both of them._

_Checking his watch, Mark figured he had time for one more beer before leaving. Plastic cup in hand, he settled himself against an opposite wall and enjoyed watching Derek and the brunette talk to each other. He felt proud of his night's work. _

_"Why are you staring at my friend?"_

_"Huh?" Mark glanced down to see a blond staring at him with a slightly accusatory look. "What the hell are you talking about?"_

_"My friend, Addison. And you. Staring. You went over with your buddy to the table, you left, and yet you're still staring. Is there a problem?"_

_Somewhere in the middle of that speech, Mark figured out who his "attacker" was. "Savvy, right? The girlfriend Addison's waiting for back at the table?" Mark decided he liked this woman—the chaperone who had the sense to stay away when she saw her friend was already talking to two guys. "Relax. I'm not looking at Addison. I'm looking at Derek—that's the guy who's still with Addison. He's my best friend."_

_At that, Savvy relaxed and stuck out her hand. "Savannah Rosenbauer. Hi."_

_"Mark Sloan. Hi." Mark took a second look. The chaperone wasn't bad looking, and she did a great job of dressing her geeky girlfriend; she might be worth his time. Maybe he'd have company going into town tonight. "Want a drink?"_

_Savvy hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "Sure. Do they have anything decent to drink?"_

_Mark grimaced. "Only if you like Budweiser or cheap wine."_

_"How cheap?" _

_"Just house wine - red and white. And lots of soda." _

_Savvy wrinkled her nose. "How does this place stay in business?"_

_"It's not in business, according to the bartender," explained Mark, who'd gotten his information earlier when he complained about the scarce offerings. "Not tonight. The student government rented the place and paid for the open bar, so we get what they paid for. This place doesn't really open until classes begin next week."_

_"Stingy bastards," commented Savvy matter-of-factly. "How do you feel about running for student government next year so we can fight for the happiness of future freshmen classes?" _

_Mark decided he liked the way this woman thought. "Aside from campaign headquarters, can I get you anything?"_

_She shrugged. "White wine, I guess. It can't be too bad if Addison is drinking it."_

_In short order, Mark came back with a white wine and a fresh beer for himself. Because the room was finally filling up, they wound up settling close to the spot Mark had originally staked out._

_"So, what's your friend like?"_

_Initially surprised by the question, Mark thought a moment about his answer. Savvy seemed to have set herself up as some kind of watchdog, and Mark wanted her to give Derek and Addison as much space as possible. It didn't take him long to decide that the truth was the easiest thing he could tell her._

_"Derek's a real nice guy who comes from a nice family. He had a couple of serious girlfriends back home, but he wasn't seeing anyone in particular this summer. We're both pre-med, so we'll probably be sharing some courses with Addison. He's a geek, but since she's one, too, I think they'll probably like each other a lot."_

_"Addison is not a geek!" exclaimed Savvy. _

_Mark just looked at Savvy, wordlessly daring her to expand on that thought. _

_Savvy raised her hands and shrugged. "She's socially challenged?"_

_Mark smirked. "Turn around. It looks like they're exchanging band stories." _

_Sure enough, both Addison and Derek's fingers were fluttering in front of them on their phantom instruments. They watched in silence for a few moments, and then Savvy's shoulders slumped as she conceded. "You win. What's he playing? Sax?"_

_"Yeah."_

_Mark waited not so patiently for Savvy to stop looking at Derek and start looking at him. When she finally turned around, he asked, "So, is it finally time to talk about something other than Derek and Addison?"_

_Savvy had the good grace to blush. "Sorry. So, what would you like to talk about?"_

_"Anything but Derek and Addison."_

_So, they made small talk about how they planned to spend the next four years. He wanted the pre-med major because becoming a surgeon sounded like a cool way to make lots of money; she wanted pre-law because her father was a lawyer and a CEO, but she didn't know if she wanted to specialize in corporate law—politics also sounded interesting. For extracurricular activities, he planned on trying out for the football and baseball teams while she was planning on auditioning for the debate and gymnastics teams. Mark half-seriously tried to convince her to switch to cheerleading from debate because they'd be able to see each other at the games, but gave up when Savvy said she'd switch from gymnastics to cheerleading only if he'd switch from baseball to debate._

_The small talk ran out at about the same time their drinks did. They looked at each other speculatively. "I was planning on checking out the bar scene in town. Wanna come?" he asked._

_Savvy looked tempted for a moment, but then shook her head. "It's bad enough I haven't gone back to the table yet. If I leave for the evening without her, she'll kill me—painfully."_

_"We could double," Mark pointed out. "Derek will come with us if I tell him to."_

_"Nah, it's already late. By the time I talked Addie into it, the neighborhood would have already closed down." She waved her had at the rest of the dance floor. "Like it or not, this is the only action around for tonight."_

_While Mark knew that no place ever shuts down completely, he wasn't interested in a debate on the number of bars or coffee shops they might find within a reasonable distance from the campus. He was interested in pursuing the opportunity that had presented itself. "We could make our own action," he said, pitching his voice to its lowest register while he started moving inside Savvy's personal space. _

_"Hold on," Savvy temporized while putting both hands on his chest to halt his advance. "Don't you think you're rushing things a bit here?"_

_Mark grinned. The sudden rush of color to Savvy's cheeks and the fact that her hands were still on his chest even after he'd stopped moving were good omens for the rest of the evening. "I don't know about that. It looks to me like things are getting off to a great start," he said as he started running his fingers lightly over her hands._

_It took several long seconds for Savvy to withdraw her hands—and another couple of seconds after that to find her voice. "You're good. I'll give you that," she said a touch breathlessly. "But a girl likes to get to know a guy a little better than this before she decides she wants to be that well acquainted. How about we just dance for now?" _

_Fuck. Mark had heard his father talk about how women extort money from men under the pretext of dating—just another form of prostitution, but one that wouldn't get them arrested. Mark wasn't sure whether he agreed with his father, but whether he did or he didn't, he wasn't stupid enough to repeat the comment to a potential score. Like it or not, that was how the game was played. "O.K.," he said, taking her cup from her and tossing it with his into the nearest trash can. "Shall we?" _

_After three or four dances, Savvy claimed it was finally time to check on her best friend. Mark considered cutting out, but then decided against it. He might as well spend the rest of the evening with Savvy as an investment in the future. _

_Fortunately, Derek and Addison were happy to see them return, and the foursome spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other._

**divider-divider-divider**

"Wow!" exclaimed Addison. "I'd forgotten Savvy slept with Mark before I did." She wondered if she could use that bit of information to convince Savvy that she hadn't totally lost her mind by having the affair. It was a longshot.

Addison looked at the clock—almost ten. She decided to try to get some sleep; tomorrow was going to be a busy day, and she was going to need all the strength she could muster to get through it. She rinsed and put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher and paused for a moment by the phone on the way to the bedroom. Should she call Mark and thank him for letting her have the condo? She decided against it with a wry twist of her lips. If Mark was running true to form, he was either picking up some woman at a bar or already in his hotel room with some company for the evening. Maybe she was wrong. But if she wasn't, she'd really rather not know.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 3A**: Just a bit of explanation about the sexual dynamics in this story for Derek fans who may be surprised and/or outraged by the supposedly puritanical streak I've attached to his character, given the lusty and uninhibited nature of the MerDer relationship.

It seems obvious that there is something irresistible to Addison about her sexual relationship with Mark, given that she keeps returning to him for sex long after she decides she wants nothing to do with him in terms of a romantic relationship. Why would sex with Mark be so irresistible if there weren't something better about her _sexual_ satisfaction with Mark than her _sexual_ satisfaction with Derek?

Mark's interest in BDSM is shown in a) the fantasy he spins about Erica Hahn as a "strict teacher" when encouraging Callie to explore her new-found bisexuality ("Freedom," part 2 [4.7]) ; b) the swats he delivers (and she highly enjoys) to Addison's posterior in an episode of _Private Practice_ ("Another Second Chance" [3.11]); and c) Lexie's regretfully nostalgic references to "sex injuries" she enjoyed while with Mark after she finds out that Cristina burned her posterior on a vent while having sex with Owen ("State of Love and Trust" [6.13]).

Despite her repeated claims that she wants a husband with whom she can raise a family, the post-divorce _Grey's Anatomy_Addison spends her time having sex with Mark-with whom she obviously doesn't want a romantic relationship-and Alex-who is not only too young career-wise to start a family, but also quite open about his disinterest in a suburban family idyll of barbeques and small children learning how to play baseball with their dads, her supposed fantasy ("Desire" [3.21]). Her _sexual_ attraction is toward the two "bad boys," Mark and Alex.

In a deleted scene from Season 2, Derek reacts badly when Meredith suggests that he try "that thing that you do in the shower . . . with the bending . . . thing" with Addison after she finds out that Derek and Addison are having trouble with their sex lives. His manner suggests, IMHO, that there are certain activities he enjoyed with his mistress that he's not willing to share with his wife. (I've always wondered if the infamous Addek shower sex scene ("Blues for Sister Someone" [2.23]) after Derek thinks that Meredith is sleeping with Finn was originally meant to be a follow-up to the deleted scene, a deliberate betrayal on Derek's part of his "fidelity" to Meredith by sharing with Addison a maneuver that he had originally created for Meredith's pleasure.) Given Derek's openly proclaimed fondness for Meredith's flexibility ("Save Me" [1.8]) and the frequent headboard changes at Casa Grey, I suspect that Derek enjoys a certain athleticism with Meredith that he did not enjoy with Addison.

Neither Derek nor Addison finds sexual satisfaction in their attempted reconciliation after the fun they've had with their other partners _even though they both remember originally having a very satisfying sexual relationship with each other_ ("Blues for Sister Someone" [2.23]). Again, IMHO, this suggests that there might have been something missing in their sexual relationship (i.e., honesty with each other-and themselves?-about what they enjoy or even simply might like to experiment with). Hooking up with someone new (i.e., Mark and Meredith) gave them the comfort zone they needed to reinvent themselves (not only sexually, although that was certainly an important part of the process), and it was no longer possible for them to be satisfied in their old roles with each other.

YMMV. :)

**Author's Note Chapter 3B**: Derek has been seen wearing a Bowdoin College T-shirt on several episodes, but there has not been a specific reference on the show (to the best of my memory) to the college as Derek's alma mater. As I know nothing about Bowdoin, I've pretty much limited myself to a generic college setting. To any Bowdoin students, faculty, and staff, past, present, and future, I offer my apologies for not matching the setting of this story to your campus.

Also, there are some references that claim that Addison and Derek first met in medical school. My assumption is that they rely on two scenes from the extended version of "Thanks for the Memories" [2.9], when Addison tries to make Derek nostalgic for the the good old days in med school when they had Chinese food for Thanksgiving. Nowhere in the episode (or in any other episode of GA or PP, to the best of my memory) was there a mention of where Addison and Derek first met, so I'm comfortable with pushing their initial meeting back to their undergraduate days.

**Author's Note Chapter 3C**: Yes, Addison and Derek are both former band geeks. Addison reminisces about her awkward adolescence-complete with braces, a lisp, and Skippy Gold, an overly enthusiastic _Star Wars_ fan-while making small talk with Derek at the Seattle Grace prom in "Losing My Religion" [2.27]. She refers to herself as a band geek but doesn't specify the instrument she played. Derek shares the tale of his awkward adolescence-complete with saxophone, Afro, acne, and 110 lb. torso-to cheer up an overwrought Miranda Bailey (another former band geek) in "Forever Young" [4.08] after she is taken advantage of by an old high school crush.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Notes to Guest Reviewers:** Wow, you folks are certainly keeping me on my toes! :) I'll try to explain my lapses from canon as best I can.

Oops! on making Addison a brunette. I missed the portrait of her as a girl that establishes her as a natural redhead. We do know that Addison dyes her hair to mark changes in her life not only from the various hair colors she wore on _PP_, but also from her confession to Richard on _GA_ that she dyed her hair blonde when Derek left her. Since she showed up in Seattle as a redhead and no one commented that she had changed her hair color, I assumed that the red color she was wearing was a dye job similar to one she had been wearing before she dyed her hair blonde. I made her a brunette not only to establish that her red hair was the result of a dye job, but also because I thought that brown hair fit better with her description of herself as a band geek, since having played a band instrument is synonymous with ultimate nerdiness in the Shondaverse. (There will be more about Addison dying her hair in future chapters, and it marks character development, so I really can't "correct" this without having to make other revisions that I don't want to. So, ooops!)

Where Addison and Derek attended college? Another oops-maybe. Derek's song about Addison ("Before and After" [5.15]) can be interpreted to mean that the first time Derek met Addison was during a dissection, but it can also be interpreted as being about the moment Derek decided that he would propose. (Yes, I know it's a stretch, but work with me, people! Please? You can check out the relevant clips at www dot youtube dot com slash watch?v=f8Fg76QwBHM) And as for Yale? Yeah, you could make a good case that Addison went to Yale-not just from the sweatshirts on _PP_, but also because it makes sense that a Montgomery blue blood would attend an Ivy League college. On the other hand, no one ever actually SAYS where either Derek or Addison did their undergraduate coursework, and I REALLY wanted to explore the dynamic of two former band geeks blossoming into the early versions of the extremely good-looking and self-confident people we know from _GA_, and I felt that making them wait for that transformation until med school was unrealistic, given the hypercompetitive atmosphere there. So, I had them meet in college and chose Bowdoin rather than Yale as the place they met because I read an article about Bowdoin's campaign to make their school Derek's alma mater.

Derek's temper tantrums? Hmmm, if it weren't for Amelia, I'd accept the possibility that Derek is the baby of his family in more ways than one-but he's not the youngest, even though he must have had several years of being the youngest since he is old enough to totally immobilize his little sister during their dad's murder. (Maybe Amelia was a change-of-life baby?) However, in "Run, Baby, Run" (5.9), Lizzie refers to Derek as Mom's Golden Child and claims that the four sisters were left to scramble for second place in the mother's affections. If Lizzie is right, then it's possible that Derek was a spoiled to some degree growing up, and that could account for his poor ability to handle both frustration and criticism.

Now, on with the story!

**Move On**

I'm Still Here

Chapter 4

If any place in New York City deserved to be called Mark's "happy place," it would have to be Hanratty's. The restaurant/bar's proximity to Mt. Sinai and their offices made it a natural hangout for Mark and Derek once they received admitting privileges. More times than he could count, Mark had started his evenings by having drinks and/or dinner there with one or both Shepherds and then staying behind to cruise for entertainment of a more "romantic" nature. He and Addison still dropped by frequently despite the awkward memories-although how much of the reason was due to convenience, and/or a genuine fondness for the restaurant, and/or an unwillingness to admit how dramatically their lives had changed was a matter probably best left unexamined.

Oblivious to his surroundings, Mark sat at the bar, cell phone in hand, morosely watching the minutes pass. At 10:20 on a "normal" evening, he would have already been at home, happily ensconced in Addison's embrace (or some other, equally pleasurable position). But now? The past forty-eight hours had been such a whirlwind of emotional highs and lows that he wasn't even sure what normal felt like. The adrenaline-generating anger toward Derek that he'd used to keep his body going at the gym had subsided into a wordless stew consisting of equal parts grief, rejection, and a nameless fear that left him with just about enough energy to continue staring at his phone. If he could have summoned up the energy to want anything, he would have wanted to talk to Addison—if not in person, at least by telephone. However, she'd made her determination to spend the night alone quite clear, and Mark (although he wouldn't admit this, even to himself) couldn't face the probability of another rejection from her. Not tonight. Not now.

Wondering whether it was worth the effort to finish his current scotch or if he should just head back to the hospital, Mark heard an exaggerated, high-pitched Southern drawl from the seat next to him. "I do declare! Mama warned me that Yankee men weren't as gentleman-like as our local boys, but I never thought I'd see the day when a lady would sit next to a gentleman in a bar and be ignored."

Mark felt a familiar adrenaline shot to his groin at the sound of the woman's coquettish tone and his mood lifted slightly; at least someone thought he was worth talking to. He leaned slightly toward the woman and grinned while his voice took on a raspy growl that implied it knew things a gentleman shouldn't mention. "Really? And what's a transplanted Southern belle like yourself doing at a bar? I thought you ladies had to be properly chaperoned when you went out in public."

"Fiddle-dee-dee! You've found me out," she exclaimed petulantly and then grinned. Her next words bore an accent much closer to his own. "Charlene Dono." She held out her hand. "And I did grow up in the south." Her eyes were twinkling now. "The south shore of Long Island, that is—although I do come by the accent honestly. My mother grew up in Georgia."

Mark settled back and appraised her appearance. Chocolate caramel complexion, intricately braided dark brown hair, and hazel eyes. Late twenties. Short. Not thin enough to be a model, he mused, but pretty. And she must have a wicked sense of humor to try pulling a southern belle routine with her skin color. It looked like the evening wouldn't be a total waste, after all. He took her hand. "Mark Sloan."

It wasn't long before Mark bolted what was left of his scotch and motioned the bartender over for another round. After ascertaining that the ersatz belle preferred a mojito to a mint julep and placing his order, Mark asked "So, what's with the bad Scarlett O'Hara impression?"

She shrugged. "It's a quick way to get a man's attention," she admitted in her normal voice, and then switched back to her higher-pitched Southern drawl as she wagged a forefinger at him. "And you weren't paying me _any_ attention."

Mark laughed. He wasn't often on the receiving end of a pick-up; he usually zeroed in on his targets as a matter of pre-emptive strategy. This didn't mean, however, that he didn't enjoy being given such attention, and he happily indulged in small talk with the assertive young woman while they waited for their drinks.

Brendan, the bartender, worked hard to keep his thoughts to himself. He and his bar had an interest in keeping Dr. Sloan happy. Not only was the doctor a regular customer himself, but some of the Mt. Sinai nurses had made it a tradition to bring the plastic surgeon's latest victim to the bar to commemorate the end of the "relationship" after he dumped them-something about a ritual cleansing at the manwhore's favorite hunting grounds. No two ways about it—Dr. Sloan was good for business.

Still . . . despite his reliance on Mark Sloan as a regular contributor to the bar's bottom line, Brendan had a hard time hiding his feelings about the doctor's current actions. He truly felt sorry for Dr. Shepherd (moderate drinker, good tipper); the poor man had been forced to disappear because Dr. Sloan had decided to add his best friend's wife to his chain of conquests. On the other hand, he wasn't exactly feeling sorry for Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd even though she was obviously being played for a fool—the woman had cheated on her husband with his best friend, and for what? A chance to have sex with a man who occasionally fitted her in among his other conquests? Still, he considered Dr. Sloan brazenly shameless for picking up women in the same bar he continued to frequent with Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd.

Brendan admonished himself with a shake of his head as he started pouring their drinks. It wasn't his place to be deciding who was worthy of absolution no matter how many drunken confessions he heard over the course of an evening. Let the priests take care of their business while he took care of his own. He plastered a smile on his face as he walked over the drinks. "Here you go, _Doc_," he said cheerfully, knowing what was expected of him. "Laphroaig for you, and a mojito for the lady."

Mark turned to Charlene with a barely concealed smirk, expecting her to be impressed by his title, only to be surprised by her own knowing grin. "_Dr_. Mark Sloane. In private practice, works out of Mt. Sinai, manages to collect more than his fair share of celebrity cosmetic work as well as cutting-edge plastic surgeries. You thought I didn't know?"

Mark narrowed his eyes as he stared at her. "Have we met?"

"Not yet—professionally, that is. I'll be starting at Mt. Sinai next week as a nurse on Peds." She lifted her glass toward him as if making a toast. "To good working relations," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Mark suddenly looked cautious, a little spooked by the idea that this woman had done research on him before she even met him. "Do you always research the doctors who work at a hospital before you take a job there?"

"No," Charlene said offhandedly. "But in your case, Dr. Sloane, I didn't need to do any research at all." She licked her lips before continuing. "Your reputation precedes you."

"Reputation?! What the hell could this woman be referring to?" he wondered silently. Then he realized what must have happened. "You've been talking to the nurses?"

"Something like that," murmured Charlene as she sipped her drink.

Mark smiled at Charlene's implication of the nurses as the source of her information, gratified by the idea that they were still speaking well of him after he'd almost stopped paying attention to them. Hell, he hadn't slept with more than a half-dozen or so of them within the past couple of months.

Thoroughly distracted from his earlier thoughts, Mark began his usual "welcome to Mt. Sinai" spiel—the one he used on all the new nurses—and offered to treat Charlene to lunch on Monday, her first day in her new job. She promptly accepted. The conversation then moved on to small talk about the hospital, but rapidly developed into a "Can You Top This?" exchange of double-entendres that had Mark wondering what he should do next. He was exhausted both physically and emotionally, and getting laid really hadn't been on his agenda for the evening. On the other hand, her openly seductive performance had certainly raised his interest (among other things), so. . . .

Mark looked down when he felt Charlene's fingers walking up his forearm. "I'm hungry, but not for dinner. Why don't we pop over to my place and get to know each other a little better?" Charlene asked seductively as she placed her hand on his arm. "I make a mean Spanish omelet for breakfast."

Mark shook his head. "Sorry. Early surgery tomorrow," he lied glibly. "No time for a Spanish omelet." Then he gave Charlene the patented Sloane smile that had enticed many another nurse into the nearest on-call room or supply closet as he left Brendan's tip on the bar. "Still it would be a shame to let the evening go by without spending a little more time together." He then looked pointedly toward the back, where a discreet sign pointed the way to the rest rooms. "Interested in dessert?"

**divider-divider-divider**

Shortly thereafter, a palpably restless Mark barreled up Madison Avenue, oblivious to the hospital across the street that was his supposed destination. He worked hard at congratulating himself on his serendipitous encounter-both for its proof of his ability to attract the opposite sex and his discretion at having had the encounter outside of the hospital, thereby lessening the chance that Addison would ever find out about it. However, the thought of a solitary Addison enduring the after-effects of a miscarriage while he managed to have a good time by cheating on her made him feel uncomfortably guilty despite the valiant efforts made by his rapidly failing libido to point out that A) Addison didn't want him around, and B) he was free to use his time as he chose.

Mark was irritated by the irrationality of his mood. After all, he hadn't felt guilty about the other women he'd slept with since Addison moved in; his decision to cut down on the number of women he slept with was due solely to his knowledge that Addison would be furious if she found out about them. He knew she expected him to be faithful, but he also knew that he'd never be able to give her what she wanted, so he'd decided to work at being discreet. As he had been this time. And, as he reminded himself _again_, she didn't even want him around tonight. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Get over yourself," he muttered.

Dangerously distracted by his thoughts, Mark realized almost too late that he'd have to move quickly to avoid a yellow cab that was turning the corner. As the driver's string of Urdu curses faded into the distance, Mark decided he'd better pay better attention to his surroundings, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of a tiny Yankees logo. He realized that he was in front of Bonpoint, the store where he'd bought that tiny jersey and the baby calendar just two days ago. The memory of how happy he'd been then-the happiness that had been on Addison's face when he'd come back and told her he wanted the baby and he wanted to make a life together for them—it was just too much.

Wary of another bar encounter, Mark picked up a bottle of Laphroaig at K & D Wines and then booked a room in the Franklin. He wanted nothing more than an uninterrupted night's sleep, an unlikely prospect if he stayed in an on-call room.

**divider-divider-divider**

After a long, hot shower and several shots of the Laphroaig had failed to relax him, Mark vowed to distract himself by consciously focusing on something else. Anything else! At first, he was moderately successful. He reviewed his upcoming surgeries and the new technique for culturing skin grafts he'd been considering and thinking about ways he could test that technique in a clinical trial. He decided he'd ask Banteng from Sinai to join in as second author on the eventual article. (Mark usually asked sixth- and seventh-year residents to join him in these roles; it was a useful way to pawn off the scut without having to put up with any complaints, since these residents were almost always trying to break into the ranks of the attendings and needed articles to beef up their CVs.) He resolved to start looking through the latest journals as soon as he got back to the office to see whether anyone else was working on growing new skin for burn victims. However, thinking about the office made him realize that performance reviews and decisions about annual raises for the office staff were due soon, and that made him think about Derek. While their office manager handled a lot of the day-to-day operation of the office, Derek was the one who generally reviewed all her recommendations and signed off on the paperwork. He'd put off dealing with anything but immediate needs (for example, signing paychecks and paying the bills the Office Manager gave him) and making sure that the neuro patients were referred to other Sinai doctors, but Derek's continued absence with no word as to his whereabouts could mean that he would eventually be forced to make some decisions about restructuring the practice. Then Mark wondered whether Addison would want to weigh in on any prospective changes.

Damn. Addison again. He was right back where he'd started. How the hell did he become a man who couldn't stop obsessing over a woman?

Admitting that sleep was probably a lost cause for the night, Mark got up, poured himself another drink, and turned on the television, but channel surfing revealed only a relentless stream of infomercials, reality show has-beens, and reruns of shows that hadn't interested him when they were prime-time programming. He paused momentarily at the porn channels, but then shook his head. Porn was for losers. With a grunt, he powered down the television and then listened to the satisfying clatter the remote made when he tossed it back on the nightstand.

Mark looked around the room. Going back to bed was not an option; he'd had enough of futilely trying to suppress his irritation at the way his life had so quickly become complicated. Unenthusiastically, he wandered over to the balcony of his hotel room, hoping the post-midnight view would provide a distraction from his thoughts. The view of Broadway was a peaceful one. New York might be the city that never sleeps, but at that hour, the streetlights illuminated uptown sidewalks that were populated only by an intermittent stream of dog walkers and people coming home from the four-to-twelve shift with the occasional dreamy-eyed couple thrown in for variety. Most stores, with the exception of the delicatessen and the pharmacy, were closed, and what little traffic there was passed by in a muted hum, a pleasant contrast to the staccato cacophony of daytime city traffic.

Determined to keep from thinking, Mark settled into one of the balcony chairs to focus on counting the passing cars. During green lights, he sipped his scotch and enjoyed the way the night air felt in contrast to the stuffy air conditioning inside.

One . . . two, three, four . . . five, six . . . . . seven, eight, nine . . . . . . . ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . . . . . . fourteen . . . . . . . . . . . fif-

_CRASH!_

Disoriented, Mark took several moments to figure out he'd been having a nightmare on the hotel balcony and that the sound that had startled him was the shattering of the tumbler of scotch he had accidentally knocked off the chair's arm while he slept.

Mark shivered; between the spilled scotch and the sweating he'd done, he was uncomfortably clammy. Leaving the broken glass behind, he turned on every light in the room before slipping into another shower. As he let the hot water sluice over him, bits and pieces of the nightmare wandered through his consciousness, but the details were as ephemeral as the steam that filled the room. All he could be really sure of was that Derek and Addison and the baby had been there and that there had been laughing—but who was laughing and why the sound of that laughter had him wanting to punch a hole in the nearest wall, he couldn't say. Resolutely, he focused on using the pounding hot water to soothe the ache in his muscles from the evening's punishing workout.

When he finally emerged from the shower, a look at the room's clock radio revealed that it was 4:13 a.m.

Admitting that sleep was a lost cause, Mark decided he'd head out for an early breakfast and a quick visit to the Sinai library for the latest journals before rounding on his patients. At some point, he'd find Addison to check on how she was doing and then head to the office.

As he started to open his wallet for the tip for Housekeeping, he noticed the rectangular bulge on the outside of his wallet and smiled. That was the memory card holding his latest photo session with Addison. If it hadn't been for the news about the baby, he was sure that by now Addison would have demanded that he delete the latest pictures, but with all that had been going on. . . . Anyway, he didn't need a memory card to remember what she'd looked like. For that photo session, she'd worn an open, sheer black chemise with a wide-brimmed black straw hat and black stiletto heels. With every hair in place and fully made up with (as she'd informed him) pomegranate lipstick and nail polish that matched the ribbon trim on her bra and panty set, she looked less like the centerfold models she was trying to imitate and more like a 1940's pin-up girl-not that he was complaining. Your average centerfold with basketball-sized boobs and a face bludgeoned into generic anonymity by toxins, dermabrasion, and/or various surgeries was a perfect example of the kind of work that made him sometimes embarrassed to admit he was a plastic surgeon.

And as for that striptease act she'd worked up? He'd been so enthralled by the notion that she'd wanted to do that for him that he'd forgotten to take pictures-but some small part of his brain was glad she had no plans to quit her day job. He preferred the self-confident surgeon to the self-conscious stripper.

Mark shook his head. Why Addison thought she had to look or act like anyone or anything but herself perplexed him, no matter how bad she felt about Derek ignoring her. Addison was a woman who could command the attention of every man in a room simply by walking into it; she probably could have made more money as a supermodel than she ever had as a surgeon. Still, he was happy to play along with her slutty wannabe fantasies so long as they made her happy. He had no problem at all with letting her know how hot she truly was.

Despite whatever guilt remained from knowing that he'd slept with his best friend's wife, Mark couldn't help but enjoy the irony that it was his uninhibited interest in sex that made Addison fall in love with him after so many years of Derek's sermonizing that he'd never find happiness until he stopped his manwhore ways. Judging by the hunger with which Addison pursued him, being faithful to your wife didn't mean much if all it meant was that you weren't sleeping with anyone, including her.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 4:** At no time has Shonda established a joint practice for Mark and Derek, although the extended pilot mentions that Derek comes from a Park Avenue private practice where he was a "one procedure hack with a house in the Hamptons") according to Richard Webber ("A Hard Day's Night" [1.1]), and Addison does say that Derek and Mark "worked together" back in New York ("Yesterday" [2.18]). The practices have to have been separate, or else Mark can't claim to have sold _his_ before coming out to Seattle. ("What I Am" [3.4]) On the other hand, _someone_ has to have been responsible for closing Derek's practice—i.e., arrange for referrals for active patients and close out the various accounts and contracts. Since Addison makes it clear that Derek simply disappears from his practice as well as every other part of his life in Manhattan ("Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head [2.1]) after his discovery of the Maddison affair, I've imagined two separate practices that share expenses for office space as well as some support services and staff. Giving Mark access to joint accounts allows him to handle the closing activities without needing to contact with Derek once Addison lets him know that Derek plans to stay in Seattle.

I wonder if Shonda realized that her decision to make Derek such a drama queen made him irresponsible not only as a doctor—leaving his patients without appropriate referrals-but also as a manager of his own finances. By walking away, he let the value of his practice dwindle to zero when he could have sold it and had a nest egg to cover the purchase of his Seattle land without touching his savings.

**Author's Note Chapter 4B:** Mark's turning on all the lights in the room is a reference to "In the Midnight Hour" [5.9], where Mark reaches out to a young girl who has been keeping herself awake every night to cope with her father's sleepwalking. He says to her: "I was raised by parents who weren't very interested in having kids. They had friends, they had lives. They weren't around much at night. And before I went to bed, I'd turn on all the TVs, every light in the house, even in the closets. Still couldn't sleep. It's hard to sleep when you don't feel safe in your own house, isn't it?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Warning**: Explicit sexual content in this chapter. Mature readers only.

**Move On**

Loving You

Chapter 5

_He couldn't remember exactly when he'd stopped defending Derek's never-ending shifts at the hospital in favor of grumpy acknowledgements that Derek was taking on more than he needed to—or when the sound of Addison's sorrowful complaints aroused his sympathy instead of his irritation. By the time he finally realized that their shared resentment at Derek's abandonment and the increasingly regular evenings that ended with her either figuratively or literally crying on his shoulder left him feeling sorrier for her than for himself, he felt torn. It was true that Derek was being a total ass, somehow convincing Sinai's Head of Neuro to include him on just about every interesting case that came in and spending more time at work than should be humanly possible between the surgeries and the writing of the articles he got published to make sure those surgeries got noticed. And sucking up to the senior administrators and trustees at Sinai. And wasting his time on stuff he should be leaving to their Office Manager. But Derek was still his best friend, his family-and the feelings he was starting to feel for Addison just weren't right. _

_He knew that staying as far away from Addison as was humanly possible was what he should do. Addison would be disgusted with him if he ever made a real pass at her (instead of the jokes he'd always made about showing her a "real" good time or showing her what a "real" man had to offer-jokes that the three of them had always laughed at). Mark's status as resident manwhore had put him far out of consideration as a possible date even before she and Derek had gotten serious. (Not that he'd been interested back then.) And even if there were a remote chance that Addison could be interested in him, he knew it would take a long time—if ever-before Derek and the rest of the family could forgive him for sleeping with Addison. There was no way he was risking his family on such a longshot._

_Mark knew he should stay away from Addison. The mess he was in was proof that he shouldn't have a relationship with any woman. Relationships with women always got complicated. Sex—just sex—that was his motto. And yet. . . ._

_At first, he told himself that he stuck around for Addison's sake. She was already hurting so badly from Derek's continual absences that it would be cruel to leave her alone. And as for the libidinous comments and glances-well, he'd always made those. No harm, no foul-except that Addison had occasionally started responding to his come-ons with sultry responses of her own. She always laughed afterward, but. . . ._

_His ebbing but still present loyalty to Derek had forced him to offer to talk to Derek about her unhappiness, only to be turned down. Addison didn't want Derek to spend time with her because he felt guilty or because he was trying to avoid her anger. (Although Addison hadn't admitted it, Mark was pretty sure that her reluctance to let him talk to Derek stemmed from their old rivalry, when they'd spent the first few years of their relationship jockeying for first place in Derek's heart. He could understand why she wouldn't want Derek coming home to spend time with her because Mark had asked him to. That would mean that he, Mark, had won. Once upon a time, he would have been delighted to throw such evidence in her face, but they'd long since settled comfortably into their respective roles in Derek's life; he felt no need to open up old wounds.) He then suggested that they see a marriage counselor, but Addison angrily rejected the idea. They were Derek-and-Addison! Derek was supposed to _want _to be with her, not have to be dragged into a doctor's office to spend time with her. _

_Without letting Addison know, Mark reminded Derek a week in advance about her birthday and didn't contest Derek's denials about having forgotten it. Addison was quite pleased with the evening she and Derek spent together-and she was thrilled with Derek's promises to make more time for them until the ensuing weeks brought no change in his behavior. Addison's moods grew darker, then, and Mark became even more hesitant to spend time alone with her. He never knew which Addison he'd be with—the witty sophisticate, the bitter shrew, or the heartbroken waif. He knew that if he stayed around long enough, they'd all show up; in fact, he'd started making bets with himself on how long it would take for the next persona to appear over the course of an evening._

_As the months went on, Mark started insisting that they spend more of their time outside-preferably at a restaurant with a bar, so that he'd be free to pick up a "date" after he sent Addison home in a cab. He was quite open about his plans, and even invited Addison to make comments on his potential targets before she left. It worked for a while, and Mark congratulated himself on his cleverness even as his resentment at Derek grew for having put him in such a position._

_And then came the night when it all the planning, all the careful evasions, all fell apart._

**divider-divider-divider**

_It began with a wisecrack. Derek was in his office, bragging about an invitation he'd wangled to the golden anniversary dinner being given for one of the trustees-a dinner he knew he'd hear about again as Addison would complain about how Derek would undoubtedly ignore her in favor of more networking, and then yet again after the evening was over, when Derek would brag about the contacts he'd made and Addison would complain that Derek _had_, in fact, ignored her again, _ad infinitum, ad nauseam_. Irritated at the being forced to go through the motions one more time, Mark jeered, "Hey, big shot! Why are you slumming here in private practice when you could be kissing Meyer's ass over lunch?"_

_Derek looked at him intently. His expression softened, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Come over after work. We can go out for dinner."_

_"Sounds good."_

_"The three of us," Derek added belatedly, remembering that Addison had mentioned just that morning that it had been a long time since they'd gone out for dinner together._

_"7:30?"_

_"Sounds good," Derek echoed, and then he grinned. "Now get out of here, so I can finish reviewing the books. The accountant's coming tomorrow."_

_Mark grimaced. "That's Maria Elena's job."_

_"No, Maria Elena's job is to run the _office_," Derek explained with all the mock patience he could muster. "_Our_ job is to run the _practice_. That includes looking at how_ our_ money is being spent."_

_Mark was too happy about the evening's plans to respond to the sarcasm. Besides, it wasn't as if they hadn't had this same fruitless discussion many times before. "7:30," he repeated before letting himself out of the room._

**divider-divider-divider**

_"Where have you been?" asked Addison as she jerked the door open before running back upstairs to finish getting dressed. "I made an eight o'clock reservation for The Leopard," she called from the top of the stairs._

_"Hello to you, too," muttered Mark without irony as he shut the door behind himself. To anyone who didn't know her as well as Mark did, Addison was acting as if she actually liked the idea that Mark would joining her and Derek for their evening out. Mark knew better, and appreciated the effort she was making to put a good face on her disappointment. He decided to reciprocate by not complaining about the restaurant she'd chosen, even though it meant changing into the suit he'd left at the brownstone. That didn't mean, though, that he couldn't tease her about it._

_Waiting in the living room, Mark checked for signs that Addison had made good on her recent threats to redecorate. Her threats could claim a certain kind of logic: "He's never home to see what it looks like, so why shouldn't I make it into something I like?" However, the threats had remained unfulfilled. The living room's eventual décor had been the outcome of a series of heated discussions, with Derek refusing to pay an interior decorator to tell them how to furnish their home and Addison insisting that two important surgeons such as themselves didn't have the time or energy to decorate their home _properly_ and should delegate the job to professionals. Eventually, Derek had let Addison and her decorator have free reign as long as the living room had plenty of comfortable, sturdy (i.e., childproof) furniture and room for family photographs. Mark thought Addison and the decorator had done a great job of accommodating Derek's demands while making sure the room fit in with the rest of the house. The linen/cotton upholstery, Scotchguarded at Derek's suggestion, was an understated brown, dark gold, and green print that camouflaged the inevitable handprints and spills left by multiple nieces and nephews, and the family photos were arranged in artsy displays with custom-designed frames that made them look more like an art collection and less like a bunch of random photos. Addison was unlikely to come up with an arrangement she liked any better without infuriating Derek in the process, so Mark expected the status quo to remain._

_Addison reappeared only a few minutes later, wearing a black, asymmetrical, backless cocktail dress that left little to the imagination with black stilettos and an emerald necklace Derek had given her for their last anniversary._

_Mark let out a long wolf whistle. "Aren't you a little overdressed for Hanratty's?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, and then he smirked. 'Or should I say _under_dressed?" _

_"I think you'd better ask Mirello over in ENT to check your ears," she deadpanned. "I said _The Leopard. The Leopard at des Artistes. _Besides," she added, "I remember you liking the swordfish the last time we went there."_

_"It's not my ears that are giving me a problem," Mark informed Addison solemnly. "It's my eyes."_

_"What?"_

_He grinned. "We're going to a fancy restaurant, and I'm seeing you with a naked face. My eyes must be the problem."_

_"Ass," Addison replied without heat. "You're the one who told me I should be letting my skin breathe more. I'll put on my makeup once Derek gets home."_

_Mark shrugged. "Derek's not upstairs?"_

_Addison shrugged back. "No, but he called at seven to say he'd be leaving in a few minutes." She started to open her mouth to offer him a drink and then realized how casually he was dressed. "Go change."_

_"Why?" asked Mark with a lazy grin. Baiting Addison was fun._

_"Because I'm not going to be sitting next to the restrooms in one of the best restaurants in town because the maître' d decided that one of my dinner companions isn't fit to be seen by the other customers," she said with slitted eyes and a mock growl. It was clear that she knew he was playing with her and had decided to play along. She tugged at his black motorcycle jacket. "Off! Now!"_

_Mark held his arms close to his sides, not allowing the jacket to move an inch off his body. "Undressing me? What's next, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd?"_

_At that comment, Addison slapped his arm and walked over to the window. "Don't flatter yourself, Casanova," she retorted. "Derek should be here any minute. Go get dressed!"_

_Mark sauntered up the stairs, assuming he had more than enough time to get dressed. He'd seen Derek leaving the office only fifteen minutes before he'd left himself, and he knew Derek would have to change, too._

**divider-divider-divider**

_As it turned out, there had been no need to hurry. While they waited for Derek to show up, Addison and Mark began passing the time by catching up on all the family news. (Addison had had lunch with Nancy two days earlier and Mark had spent the previous Sunday playing touch football in Riverside Park with the Shepherd brothers-in-law and a majority of the older nieces and nephews.) When Mark informed Addison that Carolyn Shepherd had requested—well, ordered-that they all show up for next Sunday's dinner, she pursed her lips but nodded to show she knew about the invitation. _

_Addison took a deep breath. Her mother-in-law was a formidable woman. "Do you think it might have occurred to her that we could have already made plans?"_

_Mark raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Shepherd?" He shook his head in mock disapproval. "Haven't you met her yet? About five-five, short, gray hair, brown eyes, captain in the U.S. Navy?" _

_"As a matter of fact, I have," Addison snapped, and then paused. While Carolyn had always been polite enough, Addison always felt as if she was on review in her mother-in-law's presence. She'd quickly come to see the woman as judgmental—at least toward herself__—_and could only begrudgingly admit the degree to which Derek, Mark, and the girls were so fond of her. "Was she always this way? Or was there a kinder, gentler Mrs. Shepherd before she became Captain Shepherd?" asked Addison dryly.

_"Want a drink?" asked Mark, heading off to the bar and hoping he could distract Addison from another round of complaints about the woman who'd practically raised him when she had no obligation to do so. He, Derek, and the girls knew perfectly well that Carolyn thought Addison was both pampered and pretentious, but they also knew that she had considered her conversations with them to be private-and they would never have dreamed of violating her trust. Unfortunately, the only alternative to telling Addison the truth was to lie, and that was an unworkable alternative, given that Addison was intuitive enough to figure out what was going on._

_While at the bar, Mark decided to pour a drink of his own. "You're almost out of Laphroaig," he called out, referring to the single malt Scotch both he and Derek preferred. "Does Derek have another bottle stashed somewhere?" Addison's deadpan glare was all the information Mark needed to move on._

_Addison accepted the delivery of a dry martini (her second? third?) as the request for a distraction it was, and they spent time talking shop. Given how often they saw each other, it didn't take long before they'd updated each other on their caseloads, articles they were considering, and the latest hospital gossip. Once that was done, the conversation deteriorated rapidly. Small talk about current events quickly ran dry (given their longstanding agreement not to discuss politics in the interest of preserving the peace), and turning on the television would have felt like they were giving up on their plans. Before long, they were reduced to reminiscing about other times Derek had been delayed and openly wondering how long it was going to take him to show up this time. It was closing in on 9:00 p.m. when Addison decided she'd had enough._

_"Just cancel the reservation, Mark, don't move it again," she said sharply when she saw Mark reaching for his phone. "It's obvious my world-famous husband is saving someone's life-again-another surgery only The Great Derek Shepherd can perform. Of course, he's too busy to have dinner with his wife."_

_"Just give me a minute," said Mark as he walked into the kitchen holding his cell phone. "I still have to call them to cancel." He wanted to call the hospital just to make sure that Derek had, in fact, been called in, since his earlier calls to the office had gone to the answering service. _

_A few minutes later, Mark walked back into the living room, debating whether he should tell Addison that Derek had been called in because of complications from a surgery he'd performed that morning. Her reaction could go either way. She might accept Derek's absence as reasonable under the circumstances, but she was fully capable of simply exploding into a tirade about Derek's thoughtlessness at not even asking a nurse to call and let them know he'd been delayed. Mark was working too hard at keeping his own disappointment and anger in check to want to deal with Addison's-and if he kept quiet, she might keep from exploding until after he was gone._

_"I cancelled the reservation. What do you want to do about din-?" he began to ask, but then stopped in surprise to see that Addison had picked up his scotch and was drinking it._

_"What's wrong with me, Mark?" asked Addison sadly as she looked out of the window._

_Mark groaned internally. If he didn't work fast, he was in for yet another evening of tears. "Nothing. Derek's not here because he's in surgery. What do you want to do about dinner? Do you want to go someplace? Or should we get take-out?" _

_"There must be something wrong with me," Addison continued as if she hadn't noticed Mark's attempt to distract her. "My husband isn't the only neurosurgeon at Sinai. In fact," she commented sardonically, "He's not even _at_ Sinai. He's in private practice with you and only has admitting privileges at Sinai."_

_"Addison-."_

_"There are about two dozen neurosurgical attendings at that hospital," she continued undeterred, "plus God only knows how many residents, but _my husband_ is the only one who knows how to operate after five o'clock. Everyone else-Josh and Abby and David-they all go home to their families. But not Derek!" she finished bitterly-and then took a long drink of the Scotch. "There has to be something wrong with me."_

_Mark silently counted to ten before he answered. "You've had more than two drinks and no dinner. The only thing that's wrong with you can be fixed with a little food." When she ignored him in favor of another sip, he'd had enough. "Addison, you don't even like Scotch," he growled. "Hand over my drink!" _

_Addison blinked at the glass in her hand, realizing for the first time that she hadn't picked up her own drink. "Sorry. Maybe you're right," she said with a defeated sigh as she handed him the glass. "But I'm just not hungry anymore." _

_He bolted down what was left of the Scotch as he watched her drag her feet to the bar and start mixing another martini. Damn, he hated this side of Addison, he thought. Where was that kick ass attitude she displayed everywhere but at home? She looked downright pathetic just because his idiot best friend didn't have the sense to show up once in a while. It was time for a distraction. "It doesn't matter that you're not hungry," he declared as he took the glass out of her hand. "I'm taking you out to eat." _

_"What?!" asked a startled Addison as she felt Mark's hands grabbing at shoulders and then steering her toward the hallway. "Mark! No!" she cried as she tried to pry his fingers away. _

_Mark forced her onward, stopping only when he reached the closet. "You heard me," Mark said gruffly. "It's time to grab your purse."_

_Addison glared at Mark, who glared right back. _

_"The hell with Derek, Addison," Mark declared exasperatedly. "He got called in for another emergency surgery and forgot to call home. It's not like it hasn't happened a hundred times before. I'm hungry, and so are you." Addison opened her mouth to protest, but Mark ignored her. "Get your purse."_

_Addison continued to glare at Mark for a few seconds and then wilted. Patting his chest gently in acknowledgment of the truth of his words, she opened the closet door-only to have her attention caught by her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging inside. After a few moments of pensive contemplation, she turned around and, pointing to the mirror, asked, "Mark, does this look like a woman a husband would want to come home to?"_

_"Addison!" He wanted an end to this conversation. "Purse. Now. I'm hungry."_

_"But I want your opinion. Your _real _opinion," she clarified unhelpfully as she looked him directly in the eye. "You've picked up a lot of women. You know what attracts a man's eye. Do I look like a woman a man would enjoy looking at?"_

_Mark worked hard to suppress the urge to snap. "Addison, I'm begging you, let's go. You'll feel better with some food in your stomach."_

_"Please, Mark, I'm 'begging' _you_," she replied, turning his words against him. "Look at me as if you didn't know me, as if I were some strange woman in a bar. Would you pick me up?" _

_Mark surrendered unhappily. He tried to keep his face impassive as he pretended to study her. Being honest would mean admitting that, despite her extraordinary beauty, the woebegone aura that surrounded her put her out of the running as a potential date for any guy who wasn't either too drunk or too desperate to care about anything more than a two-minute fuck. While he tried to figure out a convincing lie, Addison caught the glint of pity in his eye, raised her hands up in the air as if to ward off a blow, and charged back into the living room._

_"Just go, Mark," she called behind her. "Just . . . go. You've given me my answer." _

_Mark resisted the urge to take Addison at her word. Fuck Derek, and fuck Addison, and fuck himself, too, for staying in the middle of this mess. Still, guilt drove him to follow her back into the living room. He'd taken a bad situation and made it worse; he couldn't leave until he tried to make her feel better, even if it meant letting her cry all over him again. His fist thudded softly against the closet door. Why the fuck did women always ask questions they didn't want the answers to?_

_Addison sat silently on the couch with her face buried in her hands._

_"Addison, I don't know what I can do to make this any better for you," Mark protested. "You don't want me to talk to Derek, and I can't drag him out of surgery and bring him here. What do you want from me?"_

_"Nothing. Go." Or at least that's what it sounded like to Mark. It was hard to tell when she was speaking into her hands. Mark sat next to her on the couch, pondering his next move._

_After a few interminable moments of silence, Addison lifted her face from her hands. "I'm okay, Mark." Addison took a deep breath. "I just-." Here she paused, as if she were looking for the right words and then gave him a lopsided smile. "I was just looking for a little reassurance, you know?" _

_Mark nodded reluctantly. Whiny Addison could be treated like the annoyance she was, but this Addison was. . . different. The lopsided grin with the shoulder shrug and the eyes that glittered but refused to cry__—_this Addison he couldn't ignore. "Addie. . . ."

_Addison shook her head in a decidedly negative fashion. "I'm not in the mood to socialize now. Go out and salvage the rest of your evening. Go have a good time." Mark could still hear the raw pain in her voice even as she tried to lighten the mood. "Hey," she joked in an overly bright voice. "Why don't I come in to see you in a few days for a consult? We'll see what needs lifting and tucking." She then put her hands on the side of her face and pulled back and up._

_Eyes narrowed, Mark studied her intently, wondering how truthful he could be without plunging them both into an impossible situation. He reached out to pull her hands down and released them only with conscious effort. "Addison, you do not need a plastic surgeon-and I should know." He lifted his chin and continued. "Any plastic surgeon who took you on as a client would be guilty of malpractice." _

_Addison stared back at him, wide-eyed. She'd never heard Mark talk this way to her. Any admiring comment from Mark invariably turned into a backhanded compliment or a dirty joke. After a few beats, she said softly, "Thank you. I wish Derek felt the same way you do." _

_In the silence that followed, Mark nodded abruptly, rose, and put on his black leather jacket._

_Addison closed her eyes for a moment, and then shrugged as she stood and picked up the glasses to take them into the kitchen. "So, see you tomorrow?" she asked casually over her shoulder._

_Mark stopped moving. He'd still been planning to take Addison out to dinner, but decided to take advantage of the opportunity she'd given him to leave. In the mood he was in, he was likely to say something incredibly stupid, and neither one of them needed that. He started nodding yes before he realized that Addison was no longer looking at him. "Yeah," he said huskily. After he cleared his throat, he continued. "I don't need to sit around for a night of husband-bashing. Why don't you call Naomi or Savvy?" _

_Addison cocked her head to one side as she considered the idea. "Yeah," she sighed eventually. "Best idea you've had all evening." She put the glasses down on a side table and started walking toward the front door. "I guess I should let you out." She gave him a casual pat on the arm as she passed him. "Good night, Mark. And thanks."_

_At this point, Mark was looking forward to getting out for some fresh air; his heart was hammering as hard as if he'd run the NYC marathon. Twice. He turned, expecting to give Addison the usual peck on the forehead and escape when he saw her leaning against the door, tears running silently down her face. Instinctively, he pulled her toward him for hug, whereupon she buried her face in his chest. _

_A string of expletives flooded Mark's mind, none of which he dared say aloud. He'd already let his defenses down considerably over the course of the evening, and his body's automatic response to her touch was sending his brain (well, some part of his anatomy) a message he dared not act on. A fleeting mental image of him starting to undress her made him snatch his hands away from her shoulders in a defensive reflex. He needed to get out of there STAT!_

_While his nervous system threatened to short circuit over the cascade of conflicting impulses running through it, Mark resolutely told himself he could manage the situation with some very careful planning. He laid one hand firmly on Addison's shoulder and pushed her a couple of inches away from him, and then tried to keep his other hand from trembling as he stroked the tears from her cheek. He took a few deep breaths before he spoke. "Addison . . . Addison. . . . I have to go now." He hoped he'd kept his voice sounding reasonably normal._

_Addison looked up at the sound of his voice, the tears still falling. Mark opened his mouth to speak, but stopped at the look he saw on Addison's face as she scrutinized him. The next thing he knew, her lips were on his and her arms were circled around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss__—_a real kiss. He panicked as he felt her tongue seeking entrance to his mouth, but his instincts took over and crushed his mouth against hers. 

_The revelation that Addison wanted him just as much as he wanted her robbed him of all conscious thought. His body operated on autopilot, returning her kisses and caresses while he struggled to believe that the evidence of his senses was real. Everything he couldn't admit even to himself that he'd been fantasizing about for months was there in his arms; she wanted him as much as he'd wanted her. His conscience simply dissolved in the intoxicating mix of scent, taste, and touch that was Addison. _

_Mark continued to kiss and caress Addison, but now with full awareness of what he was doing. He quickly seized control of the action, turning his mechanical, frantic groping into a series of surreally slow, sensual kisses and caresses that left them both lightheaded and breathless. _

_Mark laid his forehead against hers, savoring the ragged edge to Addison's breathing that let him know how powerful the experience had been for her._

_"Mmm," said Addison, once she'd caught her breath, "you make me dizzy." _

_Mark grinned at this pronouncement. "Dizzy, huh?" he commented. "I guess I should do something about that," he said as he swept his left arm behind her knees and lifted her to his chest, ignoring Addison's squawk of surprise. "What's next?" he asked, hoping that those moments would turn into something more than a cruel tease, but leaving the decision to her._

_After a moment that seemed long enough to stretch into eternity, Addison whispered, "Upstairs," and then started to nibble on his earlobe._

_Mark inhaled sharply, which made Addison redouble her efforts by trailing a string of kisses down the side of his neck. But still, Mark hesitated, until the feel of Addison's fingers loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button made his feet start moving toward the stairs of their own volition. One last thought of Derek flitted briefly through his mind, but Mark dismissed it. Derek was the one who had decided not to be there. Screw Derek. _

_"Upstairs," he echoed, and proceeded up the stairs, trying to ignore the effect Addison's lips tracing his collarbone and nibbling their way up to his earlobe were having on his ability to focus on anything as mundane as climbing stairs. _

_He barely made it to the top before depositing her on her feet. "You really shouldn't do that unless you _want_ to fall on your ass," he gasped._

_"Do what?" she asked with a wicked smile._

_He answered her question with a smile of his own and reached around her neck for the zipper of her dress, only to be stopped when the button on his jacket sleeve got caught in her hair. It didn't take long for him to untangle it, though, and he swiftly dropped the offending jacket on the floor._

_He reached for her again, only to be stopped by Addison's hands, which were swiftly pulling him toward the master bedroom._

_Their first coupling happened in a mindless flurry of flying clothes and desperate grappling, as if they each needed proof that the other person was really there. Afterward, shaking and spent, each lay on his or her side of the bed, wondering silently about the significance of what they'd done. Was there any? _Should_ there be any? And what about Derek?_

_Eventually, Mark broke the silence by mock-pretending he'd been surprised to find that Addison's curly hair down under was brown-and then admitting his surprise had been real. While he had known Addison in her brunette days, she'd been a redhead for more than a dozen years, and the color suited her personality so perfectly that he'd forgotten it wasn't natural. He then threatened to start calling her "Red" again, an old nickname from their med school days. Addison's response had been to pin him to the bed and promise (between giggles) to hurt him if he ever dared to mention that name again, which led to some wrestling, which began a second round of love making as wordless as the first. This time, however, Mark seized control of the action, determined to make their pleasure last as long as possible. This night was going to be a memorable one for both of them._

_Mark began by capturing both of Addison's hands and holding them firmly in one of his own. He then began taking the rest of Addison's clothes from her body, covering each newly bared area of skin with playful nips and nibbles that had her torn between giggles and moans. By the time Mark had finished taking off her bra, however, Addison had struggled free from his grasp and was determinedly kissing him in much the same way as he'd kissed her. _

_Mark couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way about sex. Or if he'd ever felt this way about having sex. He felt almost unbearably aroused-as if he'd explode if he couldn't find his way inside her again._

_Determined to outwit his own body and make this experience last, Mark deliberately pushed Addison away and back down on the bed, shaking his head from side to side as she tried to rise again. Addison's first response was to try to sit up anyway, but she settled back when she saw the smile Mark was giving her. Mark lowered himself slowly, setting her legs on top of his shoulders. He then began kissing her stomach and moving downward, paying careful attention to Addison's breathing and pulse rate as he experimented with the placement and firmness of each kiss. By the time he'd gotten to her hips, her moans had become almost continuous. With a playful grin, he gave her navel one last tickle with his beard and began a lazy trail of kisses toward her brown curls._

_Then the bedroom door slammed open._

**divider-divider-divider**

Mark stopped reminiscing there. That moment was the moment Derek walked in, and Mark had no desire whatsoever to relive that part of the evening.

Mark shook his head at the conundrum that had once been the marriage of Derek and Addison. He just didn't get it. Derek preferring work-any kind of work-to sex with Addison? Addison afraid to tell Derek she wanted a little role-play and a spanking once in a while? It wasn't hard to figure out-all he'd had to do was take her to The Pleasure Chest and watch what she stared at. Besides, 80% of the time Addison had held the upper hand in that relationship-she dictated where they lived, who they socialized with (except for family), and how he dressed-you'd think the guy would have been happy for a chance to pretend to be in charge once in a while. Hell, if Mark ever had speculated about their sex life in the past, he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Addison had played the dominatrix. There were good reasons he'd teased Derek about being pussy-whipped all those years.

Mark smiled, relieved. He was quite grateful that Addison's taste for kink had turned out to be rather mild and that she mostly preferred to be on the receiving end in her discipline games; years ago, he'd experimented with some intense BDSM as both a top and a bottom and realized it wasn't for him. Intense pain was the furthest thing from arousing he had ever experienced. As far as he was concerned, that kind of pain just _hurt_, and that was all it did.

Mark thought about the one time Addison had reversed roles with him and scowled.

**divider-divider-divider**

_"Come on," she urged. "Give it a try. It really is fun."_

_Mark eyed his lover skeptically. He knew exactly what was behind Addison's request that they switch roles tonight. Her inner top was finally making its appearance-and he wasn't at all sure about how far Addison would want to immerse herself in the experience. Her enthusiasm could be formidable. Well, maybe he could distract her with an activity that would satisfy the both of them._

_"So, you don't feel you deserve a spanking just for making this suggestion?" he asked thoughtfully. "I might be willing to accept a bribe to overlook your "indiscretion." Mark deliberately stretched his lips into their sexiest grin. "How about you tie me up with those fancy scarves of yours and make me beg for your mercy." He was surprised that she didn't immediately agree to his offer; he thought the opportunity to take the upper hand would have won her instantaneous assent, but she only hesitated. So, he decided to throw in one of her favorite games. "Or, I can tie you up and _you_ can spend the entire evening begging for _my_ mercy. Deal?" He watched Addison bite her lower lip as she considered her original idea and his suggestions. It was obvious she found the new ideas tempting, but. . . ._

_Mark leaned back against his chair, grin firmly fixed in place. Of course, he could tell Addison that he'd already tried her suggestion and preferred to be a top rather than a bottom, but back when Addison complained about her soon-to-be ex-husband's vanilla tastes, he decided that he'd participate in whatever activities struck her fancy. He knew exactly what kind of advantage he offered in comparison to Derek, and he wasn't about to let it go. Besides, how bad could it be? Unless she'd gone back to the Pleasure Chest by herself, there was nothing in the apartment more potentially painful than a little black leather paddle, and Addison didn't seem the type to indulge in humiliation exercises for her own entertainment. He'd spent several months surviving the services of some of the best dominatrices the New York scene had to offer; he could handle whatever Addison had in mind. "Might as well get this over with," he thought. _

_"Where do you want me, Mistress?" he asked as he stood up from the table._

_"I . . . I . . . _WHAT_ did you call me?" spluttered Addison in a mixture of incredulity and anger, her eyes flashing in a way that clearly spelled danger. _

_Mark hesitated, not sure whether the "scene" had started already, or even the nature of his offense. "Mistress?" he ventured uncertainly, watching carefully for some clue from her expression to tell him whether he was giving her what she wanted-except that her continued glare wasn't giving him any. He decided to keep talking and hope for some useful feedback. "Mistress-a dominatrix. A woman who dishes out erotic pain." When her expression didn't change, he decided to be more direct. "Do you want me to call you something else?"_

_Addison stared for a couple of moments longer and then lowered her eyes and blushed. "Oh-I thought," she stammered, and then waved her hands in the air. "Never mind." _

_Mark relaxed. If Addison could be so thrown by being addressed as mistress, it was unlikely that she was going to reveal some previously unsuspected expertise in sadistic role-play._

_Further conversation revealed that Addison had nothing more difficult in mind than a reversal of a fantasy they had already played. He had scolded and spanked her for posing for naughty pictures; she would scold and spank him for taking naughty pictures. Even after regaining her composure, though, Addison refused to be addressed as "Mistress," so they settled on "ma'am" as her only title._

_Mark began playing his part with a light heart, but very soon found himself fervently wishing she'd just get the game over with. He could have enjoyed playing the mischievous schoolboy to her overzealous teacher or the lazy athlete to her hyper-macho coach, but the faux-mother figure lecturing him for his interest in sex hit too close to home on several levels. While his biological mother had approved of his sexual precocity, the unending string of "yes, ma'ams" and "no, ma'ams" made him feel like he was twelve years old again and facing Mrs. Shepherd after she found the _**Hustler**_ magazine he'd brought over to show Derek. What's more, Addison's fake anger over his "naughty" interest in sex reminded him of how furious she'd actually be if she found out he was still sleeping with other women, no matter how much he'd cut down on the numbers. Mark's growing discomfort quickly reduced him to little more than monosyllabic grunts, and Addison accepted his dour responses as part of the role-playing. _

_The actual spanking turned out to be anticlimactic. Mark had withdrawn too far into his own head by that point to be able to pay much attention Addison's efforts beyond following her orders. Addison, deprived of any feedback, had absolutely no clue as to how to respond to his sullen stoicism. By the time she'd administered a dozen or so swats of varying intensity without so much as a twitch or a sound from Mark, it had become glaringly obvious that he was far from enjoying the experience, so she stopped._

_After it was over, Mark claimed to have enjoyed himself__—_but he didn't object when Addison told him she was going to spend the rest of the evening making it up to him. 

Mark's eyes sparkled at the memory of Addison's efforts to make him feel better. By the end of the evening, he'd convinced himself that the incident had been worth it, given the creativity it had inspired on Addison's part. Even so, neither one of them ever brought up the possibility of reversing roles again.

"Addison does enjoy using those scarves," Mark mused. "I wonder how she'd feel about fur-lined handcuffs. Maybe I should make a quick trip down to the Pleasure Chest on my lunch hour."

At that thought, Mark stood up and marched briskly to the door, telling himself that it was past time for him to get started on his day.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 5A:** "Besides, 80% of the time Addison had held the upper hand in that relationship-she dictated where they lived, who they socialized with (except for family), and how he dressed-you'd think the guy would have been happy for a chance to pretend to be in charge once in a while." This characterization of Derek and Addison's marriage may sound ridiculous in view of the way Addison accepts Derek's almost continuously hurtful treatment of her in Season Two, even after he says that he's willing to try at restoring their marriage. (For example, in "Thanks for the Memories" [2.9], she says, "Derek, are you done hurting me back? Because, if not, I need to special order a thicker skin.") However, I credit Addison with a fair amount of insight when she congratulates Derek on finding the "anti-Addison" in Meredith ("Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" [2.1]) "She's young. That whole wide-eyed "ooh, he's a brain surgeon" thing happening, but still sweet. Which is what you were going for, right?"). Personally as well as professionally, Addison is a take-charge person, and she has every common sense reason to believe that a younger, professionally vulnerable member of the staff (i.e., Meredith the Intern) would be personally deferential in ways that Addison herself is not.

As for Mark's characterization of Derek as a pushover? It's impossible to know whether that power dynamic initially exists during the marriage, but we certainly know that Derek drastically changes his lifestyle when he comes to Seattle and that Addison is very unhappy with the changes. Is Derek unhappy with Addison's choices in New York? Maybe. Maybe his decision to bury himself in his work is a passive-aggressive mechanism to avoid confronting Addison about his unhappiness, and the land and the trailer are the "anti-brownstone" and the "anti-house-in-the-Hamptons" in the same way that Meredith is the anti-Addison. Or maybe he accepts Addison's preferences as a lifestyle in New York as a necessary component of the professional success he craves and never takes time to think about the lifestyle he prefers until he gets to Seattle and has the security of Richard's backing to make the choices that feel right to him.

All we know for sure is that Derek finds it difficult to handle justifiable anger and forgiveness within relationships. Two notable examples of this difficulty are: 1) his decision to flee cross-country after finding Mark and Addison _in flagrante delicto_ and his continuing inability to forgive Addison for her infidelity even though he claims to want to restore the marriage, and 2) his flight to the unfinished new house when he is unable to process his anger at Meredith over her trial tampering and her contribution to getting Zola taken from their custody ("Unaccompanied Minor" [7.22]), and his continuing inability to forgive her even as he wrestles with his desire and obligation to do so. (For example, in "Love, Loss and Legacy" [8.5], he says, "I know I should be with Meredith. I see her pain, but I can't. I can barely look at her. This is all her fault. Every time I think I've moved on, I've started to forgive her, something else comes up, and I'm right back where I was.") While an older, and presumably wiser, Derek is able to express and work through his anger at Meredith eventually, the younger Derek apparently is unable to extend that grace to his first wife. If Derek relies on avoiding confrontation with Addison and depends on venting to Mark as his coping mechanism for angry feelings, then Mark's characterization of Derek as a wimp becomes understandable.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Note to Guest Reviewers:** Yes, there's more stuff about Addison's hair here. :)

**Move On**

Everybody Says Don't

Chapter 6

Addison breathed a sigh of relief as she entered Serendipity. The kitschy, overdecorated, generally noisy, and almost always impossibly overcrowded restaurant had been a refuge for as long as she could remember. It was the place her nanny had taken her when she was six and her parents had called to say they couldn't get home in time for Christmas because of a problem in Germany that had something to do with the Captain's job. The nanny had tried to make it up to her-they'd picked up one of the neighbor's children, Naomi, and spent a day doing all the things two little girls could possibly want to do in New York City, including seeing the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, ice-skating at Rockefeller Center, and a shopping spree at F.A.O. Schwartz. Even so, the only truly fond memory Addison had from that day of distraction was Naomi's excitement over her Frrrozen Hot Chocolate. The restaurant's signature dessert had turned out to be a sundae so enormous, with the whipped cream added, that it was bigger than her whole face! Neither girl had been able to come anywhere close to finishing it, despite their most valiant efforts, but Naomi's exhilaration over the experience was contagious—and that, combined with her Nanny's persistent efforts to cheer her up, made the rest of Addison's Christmas Eve bearable.

During her adolescence, Addison was able to manage semi-regular visits to Serendipity on her own. Her high school was the Dwight School, a private international school located in Manhattan and known for its excellent college preparatory program. It was there that she'd reunited with Naomi, who'd moved to New York when she was in fourth grade. They, along with three other girls (Savannah, Amelie, and Keiko) shortly became inseparable and adopted Serendipity as their favorite location for ritually celebrating all victories and recovering from all defeats. The central piece of the ritual involved each girl ordering her own Frrrozen Hot Chocolate. Although none of them (except Naomi) would have dreamed of finishing more than a small portion of the dessert, having the choice to do so felt fun. Lucky, even. Savvy had nicknamed the dessert "juju on steroids."

Addison spotted a familiar blond head seated halfway across the room and hurried over, ignoring the hostess who was vainly attempting to lead her to the table. "Savvy!" she cried delightedly.

"Stranger!" cried Savvy in an equally "delighted" tone as she got up to embrace her "long lost" friend. Addison blushed.

By the time they seated themselves, their server appeared. "Good afternoon, ladies. Welcome to Serendipity. Can I get you something to drink?" she asked as she handed them their menus.

"We don't need menus," demurred Savvy as she conspicuously kept hers closed. "I'll have an iced tea and a Serendib salad followed by a Chicken Char Char."

Addison raised an eyebrow at Savvy. Her order of an appetizer without even cocking an eyebrow in Addison's direction meant that she intended the lunch to be a long one. Her suspicion that Savvy was having some kind of trouble was correct-not that she'd needed the lunch order to confirm her suspicions. The circles under Savvy's eyes and the not quite natural set of her smile had already let Addison know that her decision to clear her schedule for the afternoon was correct.

"Okay," Addison said casually, handing back her unopened menu. She was still feeling a little nauseous and crampy, so she wasn't in the mood for a big lunch-but she felt bound to at least pretend to make the effort for the sake of keeping Savvy company. "I'll have the salad, too, with a pot of chamomile tea followed by a Bamboo Basket. And Frrrozen Hot Chocolate for dessert, of course." Addison nodded toward Savvy. "She'll have one, too."

The server looked to Savvy for confirmation, which she provided with a distracted nod.

After the server left, Addison cocked her head sympathetically. "Salads, entrées, and dessert, Sav? What's today's topic of conversation?"

With small quirk of her lips, Savvy turned her gaze from a beribboned Harlequin mask to look directly at Addison. "You tell me, Addison," she said quietly. "One of my oldest and dearest friends ignores every single one of my phone calls and e-mails for over a month, and then calls me out of the blue to ask me to lunch. You tell me what today's topic of conversation is."

Addison eyed Savvy guiltily. She had been incredibly inconsiderate of late toward Savvy and needed to apologize; there was obviously something more going on here than hurt feelings or injured pride. "I'm so sorry, Sav. I know I should have gotten back to you before this, but a lot has happened since you and I last talked. I swear that today's lunch is supposed to be about letting you know what's been happening. But first, I want to hear about you."

Savvy dropped her eyes to the table.

As the silence lengthened, Addison stifled a sigh. She'd be the first admit that husbands could be total jackasses at times, but she'd always thought of Savvy's husband as one of the better ones. "Is . . . is everything okay between you and Weiss?"

Savvy picked off a microscopic piece of lint from the immaculate tablecloth and then smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle. "Funny," she remarked absently as she continued to stare at the tablecloth. "I thought Weiss might have called you." She lifted her eyes to Addison's. "What do you know about brack-uh?"

"BRCA?" asked Addison, startled. "It's a gene pair that helps protect the body from breast, ovarian, and prostate cancers. When we talk about testing for BRCA, we're looking for a mutation in those genes that puts the patient at high risk for those cancers." Addison tried to dredge up what she knew of Savvy's family history and frowned. "You think because your Aunt Rebecca died from breast cancer and your cousin Barbara has ovarian cancer that you might have the mutation?" Anything was possible, but assuming that Savvy had BRCA when only two of her family members had those kinds of cancers seemed premature-she hoped. "Have you been tested?" she asked, firmly banishing all hints of fear from her voice.

Savvy took a long drink of water and then focused on putting her water glass back on the exact spot she'd taken it from, and then spent some more time smoothing out the tablecloth. "Not yet," she finally answered, allowing Addison to let loose a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I heard about it just two days ago from my mother's oncologist."

Oncologist? Savvy's _mom_? The guilt Addison had felt moments before tripled; she couldn't possibly have picked a worse time to go AWOL from the relationship. "Is there anything I can do?"

Savvy shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. "It's stage four ovarian cancer. Dr. Jacobs gave us some options, but he doesn't think any of them would do much good." Her voice hardened. "We're arranging hospice care for her."

The conversation was interrupted by their server, who silently laid their drinks and appetizers on the table and walked away when she saw the somber expressions on her customers' faces. Savvy stared at her Serendib salad as if she didn't quite understand what it was doing there while Addison tried to absorb the news she'd just been given. Mrs. Rosenbauer? _Stage four_ ovarian cancer?! It didn't seem possible. She, Savvy, Derek, and Weiss had gone to see _Man of La Mancha_ on Broadway just six or seven months ago and Savvy hadn't breathed a word about her mother being sick. Stage _four_!

Addison sipped her iced tea while she wondered what she could say next. Her memories of Savvy's mom were of a woman who had been almost a force of Nature in her passion for life, juggling fundraising and committee work for her various charities with a talent for blunt honesty and a degree of involvement in her children's lives that had often left Addison jealous of her old friend in years gone by. Imagining her mother being frail enough to need hospice care was almost impossible.

"I know what you're thinking, and it's not true," Savvy said flatly.

"What am I thinking?" asked a startled Addison.

"The same thing I did when she told me—that she hadn't been seeing her doctor regularly. I asked her when her last check-up was, and when I found out it had been only a little over a year ago, I flew into Jacobs's office and told him I'd sue him for malpractice so thoroughly he'd never be allowed to touch a patient again." She gave a bitter laugh. "At least my job is good for something, right? I can't save my mother, but at least I can avenge her death. What a good daughter I am." At that, she started stabbing viciously at her salad, eventually managing to pick up enough ingredients to make it worthwhile to take a bite.

"Oh, Sav," began Addison in a voice filled with sympathy, only to be halted by Savvy's hand held up in a stop sign. She got the message; Savvy didn't want to break down, and sympathy was a threat to that. Addison tried to think of something to say that might be helpful. "Do you want me to find an oncologist to review your mother's records?" she offered.

"No." When Addison raised an inquiring eyebrow at her unexpected response, Savvy continued. "Mom doesn't want to sue, and she won't release the records. Jacobs swears he checked last year's scans again and that the tumors were too tiny to spot, if they were even there at all."

Addison nodded her comprehension.

"He says that she has an unusually aggressive cancer, and the only way they could have caught it would have been if her check-up had been scheduled at least a couple of months later—and even then, he couldn't _guarantee_ that it would have made a real difference." Savvy resumed stabbing her salad. "As if he'd say anything different with a potential lawsuit in the room!"

Addison felt torn. The doctor's story was plausible, but then so were other possible explanations. She wasn't quite sure what she should say. "So you think he's lying?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes. Maybe not. How would I know?!" Savvy exploded. "My mother may be putting the last months of her life into the hands of a lying quack and I have no way to stop it because she won't let me get a second opinion."

Addison frowned; not getting a second opinion didn't seem possible in a case like this. "But it's standard procedure for patients to get a second opinion in these sorts of cases. The insurance companies insist. What's the problem?"

"_He_ made the referral," said Savvy simply. "At my law firm, the other partners would bring me up on charges if I tried to steer a client to a specific lawyer for a second opinion. It's malpractice. Jacobs never should have given Mom a name."

Addison nibbled her bottom lip. Of course, it was true that the man shouldn't have referred Mrs. Rosenbauer to a specific doctor for a second opinion, but that didn't provide proof of medical malpractice without other evidence. True or false, they should have an unbiased second opinion. "So, let her insurance company know. They'll take care of it."

"You're not listening." Savvy said sharply, and then muttered an indistinct apology about not sleeping before getting back to the point. "Mom doesn't want me to do anything about any of this. She says she had to beg him for a name, and the only way he'd give her one was if she promised never to tell anyone. She's afraid Jacobs will get mad at her for breaking her promise, and-" here Savvy stopped to roll her eyes, "she's afraid that if I challenge him, he'll stop seeing her and she'll get treated badly by the other doctors."

Addison nodded, the picture getting clearer by the moment. It didn't sound as if Jacobs had referred Mrs. Rosenbauer to a buddy as part of a cover-up, but Savvy needed confirmation so that she could be at peace about her mother's decisions. "So I'll ask your mother if I can look over her records as a family friend. When she says yes, I'll show them to someone in Oncology at Sinai. Then you'll know." Addison put her hand over her best friend's for a comforting squeeze.

"And if I'm right?" asked Savvy unsteadily.

"Then we'll convince your mother to get an official third opinion," said Addison decisively. "Or we'll let the insurance company force the issue. Either way, we'll make sure your mother gets the _best_ care possible." She spoke firmly, noting that Savvy didn't seem to realize that whether a proper diagnosis had been made a few months ago had nothing to do with whether her mother was currently receiving the best standard of care. Well, she'd investigate that, too.

Savvy bowed her head at that, although she returned the squeeze of the hand Addison had given her moments ago. After a very long pause, she raised her head with her eyes full of tears. "And if I'm wrong?"

Addison chose her words carefully. She'd been a horrible friend until this point and wanted to give Savvy absolute confidence that her help would be available for the rest of the way. "And if you're wrong," she repeated Savvy's words back to her, "if what your mom really does need is hospice care, then we'll still see to it that she gets the _best . . . care . . . possible_. That part doesn't change. We'll make sure she gets the _best . . . care . . . possible_, no matter what her situation is."

Visibly working to maintain her self-control, Savvy stared somewhere to the right of and above Addison's head. "Thanks. I, um, I-I. . . ." She jerked her head toward the stairs. "I need-I need to. . . ."

Addison cut her off gently. "Go ahead, Sav. I'll still be here." Before Addison had finished speaking, Savvy rose and was on her way to the ladies' room.

While Savvy was gone, their server cleared the table of their barely touched (although in Savvy's case, somewhat mutilated) salads and delivered the entrées. Addison started in halfheartedly on her steamed vegetables while she tried to remember whether she knew an oncologist who might owe either Derek or herself a favor large enough to cover reviewing a patient's record without a release from the patient-especially with potential litigation on the table.

Savvy came back looking better than she had at the start of their lunch. The freshly applied makeup helped, of course, but the determined set of her shoulders and the grace in her walk were what showed the difference Addison's words had made. She stopped behind Addison's chair and gave her a quick hug before sitting down. "Thanks."

"Just doing my job. What else are friends for?" breezed Addison, relieved to see the change in Savvy's demeanor.

"I'm glad you feel that way," smiled Savvy, "because I have another favor to ask. "Once Mom's . . . situation is settled, I'm going to be tested for brack-uh. If I have it, will you take out my uterus and ovaries?"

"Whoa! Slow down," said Addison, startled by the abrupt change in topic. "Testing positive for BRCA doesn't mean you have to have surgery. There are other ways to handle this."

The look on Savvy's face was one Addison recognized; it was the same look she'd had when she'd told her parents she was marrying Weiss that summer even if they refused to pay for her last year of college. Even so, Addison felt obligated to help her friend explore all of her options; such an irrevocable decision should never be made impulsively. "Look, I understand why you're thinking that surgery is your only choice, but there are others. You can be monitored-tested every six months. We've had very good results with patients who are diligent about keeping up with the testing schedule. And there are clinical trials going on for new drugs all the time. . . ." Addison saw Savvy staring fixedly at the Tiffany lamp above their table and sighed. "You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Addison resisted the urge to fidget while Savvy stared her down. "Do you know what it's like to realize that you could be living with a death sentence over your head? That everything you've worked for and planned for your whole life could be gone-like that?" she demanded with a snap of her fingers. "One minute-you're talking to your husband about what color to paint the second bedroom as soon as the stick turns blue and convincing your mother to promise she'll babysit at least once a week. The next-" Savvy snapped her fingers again, "you're telling your husband that adoption is a perfectly acceptable way to begin a family while . . ." Savvy took a deep breath and then continued with only a slight quaver, "while you're getting your mother set up in a hospice and planning her funeral." Her voice hardened. "I'm not gonna let this happen to me if I can help it."

"But, Savvy-"

"Don't 'but Savvy' me, Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd. Aunt Becky died from breast cancer and Barb has ovarian cancer right now. Do you know how old she is? She's our age. In fact, she's four months younger than I am, so don't tell me that I have plenty of time to weigh my options, or that I need to do more research, or that this is the wrong time for me to be making this decision. I can go home and hear all that from Weiss. What I need from you is to know whether you'll perform my surgery."

Addison sighed internally. She knew that once the possibility of BRCA was raised, Savvy's "prepare for the worst" mentality wouldn't let her approach this any other way, but she wished her friend could be a little less obsessive about it all. At this rate, she'd have Addison sketching out post-op recovery plans before they got to dessert. Addison lowered her eyes to her plate while she considered her options. She most definitely agreed with Weiss, even though she had to admit that Savvy made a compelling argument. What should she do? Bottom line-the choice was Savvy's, and it was her obligation to give her as least as much support as she'd give any other woman who came to her with a request for the surgery. "Okay."

"Thank you," Savvy said softly, the tension visibly leaking out of her body. "Thank you for hearing me. You're the first person who hasn't insisted on talking me out of this."

"Hold on," said Addison. "I haven't said 'yes' yet. First, you have to meet my conditions."

Savvy's eyes narrowed.

Addison leaned forward and held up a finger. "Step One: you're going to go to your gynecologist for a full check-up. This will include testing for BRCA _and_ any tumor indicators he or she can think of. Step Two: have the results sent to me. Step Three: if your test for BRCA is positive and you're tumor-free, you'll see a genetic counselor for a full session exploring all your options." She put down her hand and leaned back. "If after you've done all that, you still want the surgery, I'll do it."

Savvy grimaced before she nodded her acceptance. "Done," she declared, extending her hand for a brief handshake, which Addison returned. "Since you're all insisting on it, I suppose I can listen to what the genetic counselor might say." She then looked Addison straight in the eye. "But I won't change my mind!"

"That's your right," Addison nodded reluctantly. "I'll support any choice you make as long as it's an informed choice."

Savvy gave Addison a relieved smile-her first smile of the afternoon-and started in on her chicken. "Would you mind sharing that insight with Weiss?" she asked. "Or better yet, why don't you guys come over for a late dinner on Saturday after visiting hours? Then Derek can explain to my thick-headed husband that I haven't lost my mind because I'm talking this way."

"Uh-oh. Time to stall," thought Addison. This wasn't how she'd planned on updating Savvy on current events. "Why don't we wait until you've been tested before we bring out the heavy artillery? This could still all be for nothing, right?"

"It's not for nothing, Adds," Savvy shook her head decisively. "I know it sounds stupid to say this, but I know I have it. I can feel it. And it's scary-but knowing you're the one who'll be removing these ticking time bombs from my body lets me be a little less scared." She lifted her iced tea glass. "Here's to a successful surgery!"

Addison shook her head as she raised her own glass. "Here's to proving you wrong and a clean bill of health." They clinked glasses.

"So, who do you recommend for my mastectomy?" asked Savvy around a mouthful chicken.

"Why not ask Mark Sloan?" Addison offered, not only because he was the best plastic surgeon she knew, but also because she figured it couldn't hurt to put him in a favorable light. "I'm sure he'd be willing to fit you in."

Savvy responded to Addison's remark with a look torn between bemusement and horror. "Mark Sloan?! Have you lost your mind? I'd never let him near my breasts-he'd be too busy drooling over them to pay attention to what he was doing."

Addison opened her mouth to object to her characterization of Mark, but then realized she was hardly in a position to defend his record with women, given what she was about to reveal. She decided to focus on the medicine. "C'mon, Sav. Mark's one of the best there is in his field. He has patients waiting for months for elective procedures. You'd be lucky to get him."

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of their server, who wanted to know whether they were ready for the Frrrozen Hot Chocolates they had ordered earlier. Savvy was about to cancel her order in favor of finishing her chicken when Addison quietly advised her that she'd be needing the ice cream. Recognizing the importance of the ritual, Savvy handed over her chicken to be wrapped to go and confirmed her order. Addison declined the offer to wrap her now cold vegetables; whatever appetite she'd drummed up on her arrival at the restaurant had deserted her.

"Ah," said Savvy, once their server had left. "I'd almost forgotten. You promised me an update, and now you tell me it needs dessert." Addison, her eyes fixed on the tabletop, could feel Savvy looking closely at her face for a clue, but she wasn't quite ready to meet her gaze. "So . . . update me."

"Funny you should have reacted that way when I mentioned Mark's name," remarked Addison in a voice noticeably higher than her normal pitch.

"Is Mark okay?" asked Savvy, wondering whether she should be ashamed of speaking about the man as harshly (although truthfully) as she had.

"Yes," said Addison firmly, consciously bringing her voice down to her normal register. "Mark's fine. Everything's fine. With Mark." Addison's fingernails, unbeknown to their owner, were digging crescents into her palm.

After a short pause, Savvy asked, "Is it Derek?"

Addison's head jerked up. "Why would you ask about Derek?"

"Come on, Addison," said Savvy reproachfully. "This is me you're talking to. Do I have to spell out the reasons? One: You spend months complaining that Derek doesn't pay attention to you anymore. Two: It's become next to impossible for the four of us to have dinner together because Derek's always in the OR. And three: all of a sudden neither one of you is returning our phone calls. For weeks." She waited for a few moments to give Addison a chance to say something, but the redhead seemed interested only in smoothing out the wrinkles in her napkin. 'Is there anything I can do to help?"

Addison opened her mouth, closed it, and then shook out her napkin so she could start settling it on her lap all over again. Now that the moment had come, she really wasn't sure how she wanted to begin. She ran through several possible openings in her head, and then decided to begin at the beginning. "It's funny that we've been talking about Mark and Derek, because what I have to tell you-oddly enough-involves both of them."

Savvy's eyes widened. "Is Derek having an affair with Mark?"

"What?! No!" protested a bewildered Addison. "Whatever gave you the idea that Derek was having an affair with anybody-let alone Mark?!"

Savvy had the grace to look embarrassed. "Derek's never around-eventually, we started wondering whether there was something more than work as the reason. What's the first thing _you_ think of when someone's husband goes missing all the time?"

Addison thought about that, and realized the concept of Derek having an affair wasn't as crazy as it sounded. If she hadn't had Mark verifying Derek's whereabouts all the time, she might have suspected something along those lines herself, and indicated as much with a self-deprecating shrug. Even so. . . . "But with _Mark_?! " she exclaimed, both puzzled and disgusted at the suggestion. "Why would you think that of either of them? Besides, you just said you wouldn't let Mark operate on your breasts because he'd be too busy drooling over them to keep his mind on his work. Why would you think he'd be sleeping with Derek?"

"Because you brought him into the conversation," pointed out Savvy in a tone so reasonable that Addison wondered if her friend knew how crazy she sounded. "So how is he involved?" Savvy continued. "Did he set Derek up with another woman?"

"Derek is not having an affair," Addison said irritably. She knew Savvy was trying to be helpful by guessing at whatever it was that was bothering her so that she didn't have to say the words herself, but her guesses were having the opposite effect. She didn't need to be reminded that the cheating spouse was automatically the bad guy. Maybe confiding in Savvy was a bad idea. Well, the only way to stop the guessing on both sides was to admit the truth. She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. "I'm the one who had an affair."

Further conversation was momentarily halted by the arrival of the Frrrozen Hot Chocolates and Savvy's wrapped chicken. Once their server left, Savvy looked at Addison's flaming cheeks quizzically. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be saying now. 'Congratulations' doesn't quite seem to fit, but neither does anything else I can come up with."

Addison let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "No lecture?"

Savvy spent a few moments sculpting something or other in whipped cream with her spoon before she answered. "If you want a lecture, go see Bizzy. If you want to fix things, go talk to Derek." She put down her spoon and looked Addison in the eye. "Since you're not doing either of those things just now, I assume you want to talk to a friend. I'm here."

"Thanks," said Addison, surprised to find that she was blinking back tears.

"We've been worried about you two for a while now," Savvy confided, filling in the silence while Addison regained her composure. "It was obvious that things couldn't keep going on the way they were, although," Savvy's tone turned dry, "we both guessed wrong on what came next. I was sure you were going to find out Derek was having an affair and ask for a divorce. Weiss was willing to give Derek the benefit of the doubt on the affair, but thought you didn't need one as an excuse-that you'd be filing for divorce soon on grounds of neglect."

Thoroughly embarrassed by how obvious the estrangement between herself and Derek had become, Addison had trouble figuring out what to say next. "So," she said awkwardly, "if you two were so sure I'd need a lawyer, why haven't you given me a referral?"

"Because we hoped we were wrong," Savvy said simply.

Addison's embarrassment turned into surprise; her friends had seen how bad things had gotten between her and Derek, and they still thought it was possible for them to turn things around? The thought was immensely comforting until Addison remembered the topic she had planned to discuss over lunch. Addison shook her head slowly. "I wish I could agree with you, but I think it's too late."

Savvy regarded Addison soberly. She'd watched Addison's struggle to retain her dignity and sense of self-worth as Derek's attention became focused almost exclusively on his career. She couldn't blame Addison for abandoning the fight despite her hopes that she and Derek would have been able to reconnect. "So, you've decided that it's over," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry."

Addison shook her head back and forth slowly. "I haven't decided that-but I think Derek has. He disappeared over a month ago and I haven't heard from him since." She spread her hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know what he's planning. I tell myself that every day I haven't been served with papers is a good sign-that maybe he's cooling off before he decides what to do. But every day," Addison swallowed hard, "every day I'm not served with papers is a day I haven't heard from him at all. He doesn't even care enough to fight with me about cheating on him."

"He disappeared completely?" asked Savvy skeptically. "What about work?"

"He's gone. He no longer shows up at the practice; Mark's told the staff to refer all patients to the Sinai neurosurgeons. Chief Ramuschak keeps asking Mark and me when Derek's expected back, so obviously he hasn't let the hospital know anything, either."

"That's . . . hard to believe," Savvy marveled. "The Derek I've known during the last few years would never blow off work that way."

Addison had to laugh bitterly at the irony. "Yes, Derek's finally taking time off."

As the silence lengthened, Savvy's brow furrowed. "Have you tried to track him down? What about reaching out to your in-laws?"

"Oh, no." Addison shook her head emphatically. "I know Derek hasn't told them anything because they've started leaving messages on the answering machine, asking if his cell phone is broken since he's not returning their calls." That first Sunday, the Sunday they'd all been invited to a family dinner, had been tricky. Addison refused to go, so she and Mark finally agreed to tell the family that she and Derek had been called into an emergency surgery on a pregnant woman with an aneurysm. Mark had been forced to attend the dinner alone with the cover story, and they'd both avoided all contact with the Shepherds since then.

"You haven't spoken with them?" At Addison's shamefaced nod, Savvy forced a chuckle. "At least I'm not the only person you've been avoiding." She tapped her fingers impatiently against the table while she tried to think of another lead. "He hasn't been in touch with Weiss. What about Sam? You know how close they were before he and Naomi moved out to California. Have you tried calling them?"

Addison shifted uncomfortably in her seat. In the past ten minutes, Savvy had done more thinking about productive ways to track down Derek that she had done in the past month-and-a-half. "I haven't spoken to them recently, but Nae e-mailed me just a couple of days ago. Most of it was about Sam's mid-life crisis. She's worried about him. If she's heard anything about Derek-and I don't know that she has-she's not telling me."

"Hmmm." While Addison tried to work up the nerve to start telling her story, Savvy continued to brainstorm. "Do you have a friend in Accounting or Human Resources who would let you know if he's left a forwarding address for any outstanding checks?"

Addison's head jerked a quick no. "Direct deposit. And before you ask, the account belongs to his practice. It's not a joint account."

Savvy stopped to take a drink of water and then snapped her fingers. "Have you thought about hiring a private investigator?"

"And then what, Sav? Drag him home?" Addison huffed, visibly annoyed by the suggestion. "I can't force him to want me."

"Okay, point taken," Savvy replied as she raised her hands defensively. Then she persisted in brainstorming. "Have you thought about quizzing Mark? Derek may not be going in to work, but I can't believe he wouldn't let Mark know where he is. Those two were best friends since before we even knew they existed."

Addison thought that answering one more question would make her scream. "Look, I appreciate that you're trying to help, I do," she said, placing her palms flat on the table. "But this is going to be a lot easier-and quicker-if you just let me talk until I'm finished telling you what happened. Once I'm done, you can ask any questions or make any comments you like, but not until then. Because if I don't start talking soon, I'm going to lose my nerve. Okay?"

Looking more than a little apprehensive about the kind of revelations that might follow such a speech, Savvy nodded her acquiescence and Addison began telling her about the night her marriage had imploded. Aside from an occasional request for a minor clarification, Savvy kept to her assigned role of listener. By the time Addison was through talking, Savvy had finished all of the sundae she intended to eat and watched the rest of it melt into a mushy pool that filled about three-quarters of the bowl it had come in.

"So, what do think I should do next?" asked Addison nervously at the end of her narrative.

"That depends on what you want to make happen," Savvy stalled, still trying-and failing-to make sense out of what she'd just heard while she poked at the chocolate sludge in front of her. "I thought you were still trying to work things out. I didn't realize you were that angry at Derek." She looked up at Addison. "Wouldn't it have been less cruel to just file for a divorce?"

"What?!" Addison hadn't expected that reaction. "How can you say that?"

Savvy set her spoon down on her saucer with a sharp click. "Addison, you were waiting for him to come home and find you having sex with his best friend in his own bed. In the bed he shared with you. You know who Derek is. What did you think his reaction was going to be?" Savvy asked, clearly at a loss.

"But . . . but . . . but it wasn't anything like that," objected a flustered Addison, deliberately pushing away the chain of thought that had led to her desperate grab at Mark as he headed for the door. "We weren't even thinking about Derek-Derek hadn't even come home when he was supposed to. If he had, nothing would have happened. Mark and I just-it all . . . just happened," she finished disjointedly, aware of how lame her statement sounded.

Savvy's eyebrows hiked straight toward her hairline. "So, _Derek_ is the one who's responsible for you and Mark. . . ."

As Addison watched Savvy struggle for a description of what she and Mark had been doing that evening, several phrases came to mind, none of them complimentary. ". . . for Mark and I cheating?" she asked with forced calm as she struggled to keep her composure. The bald description of their actions hurt, even if she was the one to say the words.

Savvy nodded and shrugged ever so briefly, as if to say, "Your words, not mine." Then she continued, "You couldn't have found someone else to scratch the itch with? Someone who works at the hospital? A random guy in a bar you could have taken to a hotel room?" When Addison raised her eyebrows at that suggestion, Savvy raised hers in response even as she lowered her voice to a furtive whisper. "Come on! You're going to tell me you couldn't have found a better candidate for a one-night stand than _Mark Sloan_? Or a better place to get laid than in your own bed?"

Addison flushed, her injured pride rushing to cover her embarrassment. Deciding for the moment to ignore the location of their tryst-a factor she couldn't defend-she crossly asserted, "Mark is more than a one-night stand. I've been living with him ever since Derek left."

Savvy opened and closed her mouth soundlessly. It was obvious from Addison's pugnacious expression that she'd have to pick her next words carefully-but she didn't know where to start. Even if she ignored Mark's relationship to Derek-they were practically committing incest, even if it was from a psychological rather than a biological point of view-Mark's personal life was dedicated to indiscriminate sex. The Addison she knew-the Addison she thought she knew. . . .

"Mark's different with me," Addison broke in, hating that she felt the need to justify her actions but forging ahead just the same. She had to convince Savvy she hadn't been a sadist. Or a masochist. Or an idiot. "He's not spending his evenings pursuing nurses. We spend every night together that one of us isn't on call." Addison resolved not to mention the nurse in Oncology who, after all, had merited nothing more than an on-call room quickie during the first week she'd been living at Mark's. "He's not who you think he is."

Savvy stared dubiously. She'd already dated and broken up with Mark years before Addison and Derek had even begun dating more than casually. She felt confident she had a handle on his character.

"Seriously, he's different when he's with me," Addison protested in the face of Savvy's silent but evident skepticism. "He takes care of me. He wants to be with me-which is something Derek hasn't wanted for a long time. When Derek was here, I was lonely. And angry. Mark . . . wants me. He makes me feel . . . wanted," she ended firmly, and waited for Savvy's reaction.

Savvy looked at the expression on Addison's face incredulously. They'd all learned to put up with Mark's presence, but none of them, including Addison, had ever expressed any particular affection for the man. She got along with him in the same way and for the same reason she got along with her mother-in-law-they were Derek's family. But now-the way she was talking about him-it couldn't be. "Are you saying that you're serious about him?" Savvy asked incredulously.

Addison grimaced internally as she tried to figure out how to explain how true and untrue Savvy's insight was when an explanation suddenly presented itself. "Remember _Man of La Mancha_? Remember how Aldonza felt worthless because everyone treated her as if she was worthless, but then Don Quixote came along and convinced her she was Dulcinea, a highborn lady?" Addison gave an emphatic nod of her head. "Mark makes me feel like Dulcinea."

Stalling for time, Savvy took a spoonful of ice cream while she tried to wrap her mind around Addison's pronouncement. Don Quixote made a whore feel special because he treated her like a high born (and presumably chaste) woman. Mark had taken a highborn (well, born into old money), chaste woman and turned her into a—well, not a whore, but a woman who cheated on her husband. With a manwhore. There was no other explanation-Addison had simply lost her mind. "Adds, this is Mark we're talking about," she said beseechingly. "Do you remember who he is? How long do you think this can last?"

Addison barely resisted her impulse to snap at Savvy's implicit condescension. Of course, she knew what she was doing and who she was doing it with. And now she had to provide proof that she hadn't thrown away her marriage for a quickie? Fine! So, what proof could she offer that Mark was worth more than a one-night stand? Well, he was perfectly able to carry on reasonable conversations-a thing neither she nor Savvy wouldn't have believed possible in view of the frat boy persona he had usually exhibited around the two of them. _And_, he had become practically celibate. One one-night stand with a nurse in close to two months didn't mean that much compared to his previous habits, right? And speaking of sex. . . . Addison let out a long breath. Explaining Mark's abilities in the bedroom would do nothing to change his image in Savvy's eyes, no matter how good he'd made her feel in the wake of Derek's abandonment.

Addison bit her lip as she suppressed a sigh. Her desire to defend Mark-and by proxy, her affair with Mark-warred with the unpalatable truth that she knew Savvy's objections were valid. Mark would eventually return to his old behavior patterns; that knowledge been the deciding factor in her decision to get an immediate abortion. Even so, she decided she owed Mark enough loyalty to tell Savvy how he'd changed. "If you're so convinced Mark hasn't changed, then how would you like to make a bet on how he'd react if I told him I was pregnant?"

Savvy's eyes widened as she mumbled something to herself in Yiddish. Addison couldn't quite catch what it was, but she was pretty sure it hadn't been _l'chaim_ or _mazel tov_. "You're pregnant," she said flatly. "By Mark." Her face darkened, and she rubbed her fingers against her temples in little circles, a sure sign she was trying to ward off a headache. "Tell me, at what point did our lives turn into a soap opera?"

Addison frowned. This wasn't the reaction she'd expected, but then understanding dawned. Savvy now believed she probably wouldn't be able to have children of her own-and if she did have BRCA and stuck to her decision, then she was right about that. The incongruity was striking, and she regretted the way she'd introduced the topic. "No, I'm not pregnant," she replied, quickly and quietly. "I was, but I'm not."

Savvy's look of annoyance changed immediately to a mixture of sympathy and concern. "I'm so sorry, Addie," she said gently, but then cocked her head. Addison had spent years telling them all she didn't want any babies yet. "Am I sorry? Or congratulatory?" she added cautiously.

"That depends on which one of us you're talking to," responded Addison matter-of-factly, determined to keep things unemotional. "I had an abortion. Mark thinks I had a miscarriage and he's devastated."

Savvy decided soap opera was too mild a term for what she was hearing. Somehow, she'd turned into Alice and fallen straight down the rabbit hole. "Mark _wanted _a baby?"

"Mark wanted a baby," Addison confirmed with a brisk nod. After a brief pause, she added, "And he wants to try again when I've 'recovered.'"

Silence reigned for the next couple of minutes while the women played desultorily with their melting ice cream. Savvy's mind teemed with questions. Some of them just couldn't be asked without becoming downright insulting, but she finally settled on the things she most wanted to know. "Are you in love with Mark? Are you going to stay with him?"

Addison didn't have to hesitate this time; after the previous evening's introspection, this was a question she could answer, however ambivalently. "I . . . I don't think so. No. Although I was a little bit in love with him at first. It felt so good to be wanted again," she said wistfully and then offered a tremulous smile. "Mark has been a terrific distraction-but Derek is the one I want. The only real question is, does Derek want me?"

Savvy felt torn. Addison was one of her oldest and dearest friends, and she wanted to sympathize with her. She was _trying_ to sympathize with her. God knew how worried she'd been about her and Derek for the past few months, and how angry she'd been on Addison's behalf. But there were limits to her sympathies, especially when Addison was behaving in such a self-defeating fashion. "No, Addison. The only real question is, do you want Derek? And if you want him, what are you going to do to get him back?"

Expecting sympathy, Addison felt like she'd been hit with a bucket of cold water. After a moment to get over the shock, she called herself an idiot for not listening to the little voice in the back of her head that had warned her that Savvy might not be the most compassionate of listeners. "I can see whose side you're on," she said as she looked around for their server to ask for the check. It was time to go.

"Addison. _Addison_! Savvy tried to catch Addison's eye as she deliberately looked everywhere but at her lunch partner. "Addison-_look_ at me," she said sternly.

Having finally caught their server's attention, Addison dove into her purse for her credit card. "Look, Savvy, it's getting late, and I have to get back to the office. Let me know when your mother's feeling well enough for me to see her, and we'll start working on that plan, okay?" The vivid patches of red high on her cheeks and the slightly stilted quality of her movements made Addison's desire to escape all too clear.

"Addie, please look at me," Savvy pleaded in a far gentler tone. "I'm not trying to lecture you. I just want to ask you a few questions. You tell me that you want Derek, but you're living with Mark. What do you think Derek's reaction will be if he shows up back at the brownstone and finds out where you're living?"

Addison was spared from having to give an immediate answer by the arrival of their server.

"Is there anything else I can get for you today? Some coffee?" she asked, but then nodded when she saw the credit card in Addison's hand. Grabbing bowls full of mostly melted goo, she promised, "I'll be right back with your check."

Several uncomfortable minutes passed while Addison studied the familiar _tchotchkes_ decorating the walls and Savvy calmly waited her out. Addison's pride waged an unseemly war with her knowledge that her old friend wouldn't let her get away with anything but complete honesty. She groaned and threw up her hands. "Fine. I'm crazy. Is that what you want me to admit? That I'm crazy? Fine. I admit it. I'm crazy." Addison's tone had started out on the defensive side, but by the time she was finished speaking, she was smiling ruefully. "Am I crazy?"

Savvy's smile matched Addison's with more than a touch of relief added. "There's the Addison I know and love-_meshugganeh_, but she's honest about it." Then her grin faltered into a worried frown. "If you're really asking me-I'd say the real problem is that you don't know which one you really want-and if you don't make up your mind quickly, you'll wind up losing both of them."

Much to Addison's chagrin, Savvy wasn't saying anything Addison hadn't already admitted somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, however hard she'd tried to keep her realizations quarantined there. "So, what should I do?" she asked plaintively.

Savvy shook her head from side to side. The logistics were relatively simple to figure out; she couldn't believe Addison was even asking the question-until she realized that the question wasn't about logistics. "Honey, you have to make a choice. If you're sure you want Derek and not Mark, move back to the brownstone and do whatever it takes to find him. Call family, call friends, use a private investigator-whatever it takes. And when you find him, _talk_ to him. _Make him_ talk to you. Ask him to come back. Promise that you'll never see Mark again and make sure the both of you see a marriage counselor and figure out what it's going to take to put your marriage back together again." Savvy looked at the mask of stillness Addison had assumed and asked, "But that's not the issue, is it?"

Addison couldn't quite meet Savvy's eyes, but she gave a quick shake of her head as she opened her purse once again, this time to look for a pen.

"You're wondering what you're going to do if Derek refuses to come back," Savvy said with deadly accuracy. "You're wondering what to do about Mark."

Addison gave an awkward shrug of her shoulders while still digging through her purse.

"Is Mark still an option for you? I can't believe I'm saying this . . ." Here Savvy stopped to shake her head incredulously once again. ". . . but if he really is in love with you, how do you think he'll react to finding out you aborted a baby he wanted? I mean. . . ." Here Savannah stopped, unwilling to voice her suspicion that Addison's relationship with Mark would have imploded soon anyway. Mark was Mark. Eventually, he'd be looking for an excuse-any excuse-to resume his old ways, and Addison had given him a perfect one.

Addison was grateful for the distraction of the returning server with their check. She stalled by checking each item on the bill carefully, painstakingly calculating a generous tip to make up for the ridiculously long time they'd monopolized the table, and then signing it with an attention to her signature she hadn't exhibited since elementary school, when she was graded on her penmanship.

Savvy used the break in the conversation to ponder what might be her wisest course. Addison wasn't acting like a woman who wanted her husband back, no matter what she claimed. And as for what Derek wanted-his absence spoke volumes. Besides, she didn't see Derek as the forgiving type for something like this. Cheerful and easygoing to a fault over day-to-day stuff that could fray many people's nerves, he had a moral sensibility that could cut like a knife when he felt you weren't living up to his standards. Derek tolerating adultery? Even his church would give its blessing for a divorce under these circumstances. If Addison were smart, she'd file for divorce before Derek took advantage of the opportunity to file first. After all, she'd never even asked him to sign a prenup, despite her family's objections, and there was that trust fund to be protected. Derek was no gold digger, but she'd seen other divorcing couples fight over money as revenge over issues that had nothing to do with money. Addison had a lot to lose if she wasn't careful.

The thought of a Shepherd divorce dismayed Savvy. Addison-and-Derek and Savvy-and-Weiss had been an enduring foursome ever since college. She would miss Derek, and Weiss would miss him even more. And Addison maybe even more than that, although-clearly-not as much as Savvy had once thought she would. It really was all over except for the ugly legalities.

The Mark nonsense? Mark was clearly just her rebound guy, even if Addison wasn't ready to see it yet.

And as for Mark himself? Savvy let herself wonder for a split second whether there could be any truth in what Addison was saying, and then grew scornful of her own naïveté. The man was sleeping with his best friend's wife! She reminded herself of the last dinner party she and Weiss had attended at the Shepherds'. During Weiss' absence, Mark had given her a look that clearly indicated he was imagining her naked, muttered a reference to old times, and then asked her if she was interested in a quickie. As soon as she'd started sputtering, he grinned that cheesy grin of his and spouted something asinine about liking to tease her because she was so beautiful when she was angry. Maybe he had been telling the truth, but she was convinced that if she'd accepted his offer, he would have accepted hers. Poor Addie! Savannah hoped she wasn't setting herself up for too dramatic a fall when the inevitable happened. In the meantime, she would back off and let Addison work through whatever she needed to.

"Time to go?" Savvy asked cheerfully as Addison put away her pen. She then looked at her watch and let out a low whistle. "It _is_ time to go. I have to be at Garren's in twenty minutes."

Confused but grateful for the switch in topic, Addison was more than willing to play along. "The usual?"

"I don't know. I haven't made up my mind yet."

Addison's eyebrows crawled to her hairline at that statement. "So why did you make an appointment?"

Savvy shot Addison a look that said she clearly should have known better than to ask the question, and that gave Addison her answer. "Your mother."

Savvy nodded. "Yesterday, mom announced that my roots had grown long enough to be seen by the legally blind and that I'm not allowed back until I do something about them."

Addison unsuccessfully tried to stifle a giggle. After such a tension-filled lunch, hearing about Mrs. Rosenbauer's mild wisecrack was a welcome distraction. "You have to admit, she's still keeping her spirits up."

"That she is," allowed Savvy. "Actually," she admitted as they started walking out of the restaurant, "I think she realized we both needed a break from all the hovering."

Addison nodded, thinking about the ways patients typically cope with the helplessness of end-stage disease. "And this lets her feel like she's still in charge, like she's still your mother."

"Mmm."

As they emerged into the brilliant June sunlight, Addison had to admit that Mrs. Rosenbauer's assessment, while colorful, had some truth to it-and that led her to start wondering whether she should schedule a session of her own for a touch-up. Her count of the weeks since her last touch-up was interrupted by Savvy, who had a mischievous expression on her face. "As I was saying, I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do. I could settle for a touch-up and a trim, but part of me wants to do something different. How do you think I'd look as a redhead?"

"A redhead? But you keep telling me that it's blondes who have the most fun," snarked Addison, referring back to their old arguments. But then she turned serious. "Are you thinking about a strawberry blonde, or something darker, more like mine?"

Savvy walked a few steps in silence before she confessed, "I don't know. I thought I'd let Peter make some suggestions," she said, referring to one of the salon's colorists."

Addison looked at her friend curiously. "You don't know?"

"I don't know," she confirmed. "I don't know if I even want to change my color. I just . . . want something to feel different." Addison's unexpected silence at this remark made Savvy feel more than a little self-conscious. "I know it's silly, but I thought it might make me feel better." When Addison still didn't respond, she tried to capture her attention. "Addie? Earth to Addison, please respond."

"What? Sorry," apologized Addison, yanking her attention back to the present moment. Savvy's idea of using a hair color change as a mood-lifter had captured her imagination, and she'd started thinking about the possibilities. "I, uh . . . what do you think of me as a blonde?"

They'd reached the corner of 60th and Second, where Savvy had expected Addison to hail a cab back to the hospital, not echo her crazy idea. "Are you asking that just to make me feel better?"

"No. _No!_" protested Addison, growing more animated by the second. "We both need a lift to our spirits. Let's do it."

"Addison, I was just talking off the top of my head," protested Savvy. "Talking about asking for suggestions. Not planning a definite change. I'm scheduled for a touch-up, not a full dye job."

"Maybe they'll have time to change it," Addison said optimistically. "Her eyes lit up. "Hey, maybe they've had some cancellations and they'll have time to take the both of us. Come on," she urged, picking up the pace as she headed up Third Avenue. "We're less than four blocks away. Let's ask."

"_Meshugganeh_," muttered Savvy, wondering whether Addison's continuing erratic behavior was an inevitable side effect of the demise of her marriage. "Be supportive, be supportive," she chanted under her breath until she caught up to Addison. "Didn't you say you had to get back to the office?"

"Oops!" thought Addison, remembering her earlier lie. Without breaking stride, she dismissed her fabricated excuse with an airy, "It's just catching up on paperwork. I can do it tomorrow."

**divider-divider-divider**

Several hours later, a statuesque honey blond with gold highlights stood outside of Garren's, cell phone in hand. "I'm sorry I didn't return your calls earlier. . . ." She waited tensely for a chance to explain. "No, I'm not angry at you. . . . No, I'm fine." She rolled her eyes. "I turned off the phone because I had a lunch date with Savvy, and I forgot to turn it back on. . . . No, I planned to be out of the hospital this afternoon. I'm fine, Mark." Addison waited impatiently for Mark to finish his fumbling complaint and thought longingly of Derek. He'd never complained about her spending time with her friends; he used to encourage her to spend time with them so he could spend time with Mark without her complaining about being ignored. Yes, it meant that they were manipulating each other, but as long as they both were happy with the arrangement, it worked. She hated having to account for her time, but Mark had been hovering all day. They'd spoken three times by phone that morning, and she'd found five voicemails from him when she turned on her phone.

Dinner? Addison stared at her phone. The last thing she wanted tonight was Mark's company. Savvy's words had felt like a slap-a slap she needed to get her to take charge of her life again. She had decisions to make and she needed time in which to figure them out. But guilt-guilt over having thrown the man out of his own home, guilt over the abortion, even guilt over the impending break up-kept her mute. "I'm not in the mood for anything in particular," she temporized. "Where would you like to go?"

Mark's reaction could have annoyed her, but she decided to fall back on their customary banter as a way of avoiding a real conversation. "Are you implying that I hog all the dinner choices?" she asked with slitted eyes. "Because if you are . . ." she let her voice dangle while she tried to think of a threat appropriate to the moment, "I'll have you dress up in a tux and take me dancing." Addison tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear as she waited for Mark's snappy comeback.

"No, Mark," she snapped. His tone reminded her of the wounded look he'd worn as he'd left the condo the night before, and the last thing she wanted was to feel any more guilt. "I don't want to go dancing. I just told you I'm not in the mood for anything special," she explained with an eye roll. "Now pick a damned restaurant." Addison started walking uptown as a way to work off some nervous energy as she waited for his response.

Addison pondered Mark's suggestion. Acqua was a neighborhood Italian restaurant they both liked. "Acqua sounds good," she acquiesced. "But don't pick me up. I'll take a cab."

Addison let him protest her decision for no more than a second or two. "It's rush hour. If you think I'm waiting for you to navigate over forty blocks in this kind of traffic, you're crazy." She thought about explaining where she was, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. He'd figure out what she'd been doing as soon as she walked into the restaurant. "Are you ready to leave the office?"

"Okay. I'll see you in a half hour." Addison continued walking as she put away the phone. Traffic was still congested enough to mean that she'd need to hop a cab soon, but she still had a few minutes left that she could use to walk without making herself unreasonably late. "Walking is good," she told herself. "Walking is good. I need . . . good."

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 6A:** When I first watched the episode "Let It Be" [2.8], I assumed that Savannah was letting Addison know about her BRCA gene for the first time, but my assumption bothered me. It bothered me because it seemed as if Addison was at least somewhat hesitant about Savannah's choice but didn't ask to review all the previous medical records to make sure that 1) Savannah had gone through all the proper steps one goes through before opting for such drastic prophylactic surgery, and that 2) Savannah's interpretation of what she'd been told was accurate (as opposed to simply hearing about the gene and assuming she has it because her mother died of ovarian cancer). Also, in trying to assess Savannah as a character and not simply a plot device, I couldn't believe that Savvy had been going through the twinned ordeals of her mother's death and the BRACA diagnosis without confiding in one of her closest friends who also happened to be a doctor with the professional expertise to help her sort through her options.

Once I started writing "Move On" and decided I wanted to use Savvy as a sounding board for Addison, I realized that I'd have to deal with the cancer/BRCA issues. The timeline (assuming that the Shondaverse calendar has any relationship to the real world) didn't allow me to assume that everything from the diagnosis of Savvy's mother through her death and Savvy's BRCA results and required genetic counseling could have happened in the short period between Addison's departure for Seattle and "Let It Be" [2.8]. So, I rewrote Savvy's and Weiss's back-story while trying not to violate canon too badly.

**Author's Note Chapter 6B:** Yes, I know _now _that in "Walk on Water" [3.15], Addison claims to have dyed her hair blonde the day after Derek left her. However, I didn't remember that little detail when I was plotting out the story—and by the time I "remembered" (i.e., got reminded while I was rewatching Season Three), I already had enough character development hanging on the inadvertently revised timing of the dye job that I didn't want to give it up. So, I plead guilty to a break with canon here. _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_—thirty lashes with a wet noodle for me. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Note to All Readers:** I know I said that I'd be posting only one chapter a day, but this one is pretty short, so I'll post two. Consider it a "thank you" for all the nice comments I've received. Happy reading!

**Note to My Latest Guest Reviewer:** Thanks ever so much for the kind words. I'm afraid that I'll have to disappoint you about the ending, though. This fic is trying to stay pretty close to events as they were portrayed on the show, despite a few deviations-some on purpose, some not. :-D If you'd like to discuss my theories about Mark and Addison's relationship-why it worked and why it was fated to end-PM me.

**Move On**

We're Gonna Be All Right

Chapter 7

Even though he was exhausted at the end of a long day that had come at the end of an even longer week, Mark stared steadily at the ceiling in the darkened room. He couldn't remember ever having had a more discouraging week in his life. He hadn't felt this alone since he was a kid, and . . . since he was a kid.

Losing the baby had been hard-harder than Mark wanted to admit. Even so, he'd listened to Addison talking about her patients often enough to know that miscarriages were not uncommon and that one miscarriage should not be taken as a sign that they wouldn't be able to make another baby. He could-he _could_-he told himself firmly, start over once Addison recovered. So, it wasn't the loss of the baby that made Mark uneasy. It was the way losing the baby had changed Addison.

Mark understood that Addison was bound to be more deeply affected by the loss of the baby than he was. He'd expected her to be sad, even weepy-and wanting lots of attention while she recovered. He'd been prepared to ask Johnson to take over the practice for as long as it took (a week? two weeks? Maybe take her away for a mini-vacation?) to help her get back to her normal high spirits. Instead, he'd watched her draw away from him, politely but firmly rebuffing his attempts to reach out to her.

It wasn't that he expected her to have intercourse with him; he understood that her body was going to need time to recover. No intercourse for now. But no intercourse didn't have to mean no fun. But now? Nothing. No games, no toys, no role-playing, no creativity. No testing the boundaries between pain and pleasure.

Before the miscarriage, he and Addison had spent time talking together even when they weren't having sex. And that had been fun, too. But since she lost the baby? Having exhausted their share of "How was your day?" small talk over dinner, there didn't even seem to be anything left to talk about once it was time to go to bed. He missed her.

The irony of the timing didn't escape him. That Addison should leave him feeling this way just when the fucking guilt from his last random encounter at Hanratty's had him wondering whether he wanted to give monogamy a try just seemed like a sign from the universe that he was a fool for even thinking about trying. And yet, for reasons he couldn't explain, even to himself, he wanted to try. At least for a little while. Derek managed for more than eleven years-even more when you counted from the engagement or even from when they started dating seriously. He could give it a try.

If she didn't drive him out of his fucking mind first.

The first night, after dinner at Acqua, Addison had gone to bed alone (at her request) while he killed time watching a Mets game before joining her. Several hours later, he'd woken to find Addison's body jammed into his side while she sobbed quietly. He then made the mistake of asking her what was wrong, which sent her flying into the bathroom as she mumbled something about cramps. Mark turned on the light and sat up to wait for her, wondering whether this was a medical emergency or just the normal aftermath of a miscarriage. When she hadn't come back after a few minutes, he tapped on the bathroom door to ask her if she needed help, only to be met with a whimpered plea for him to please go back to sleep. Knowing he was unwanted and getting tired of being treated that way, Mark stifled several sarcastic comments and went back to bed. Once there, he closed his eyes and lay still enough to give Addison the impression he had done as she asked. Ten or fifteen minutes later, Addison did come back to bed, albeit to the far side of mattress. He eventually fell into a fitful sleep, only to wake up and find her curled around him as if the past few days had never happened. Carefully remaining still so as not to disturb her, Mark relished the feeling that life was finally returning to normal. However, when Addison awoke, she immediately disentangled herself from him with a pleasant politeness that had him feeling as if he were a guest in his own bed.

On subsequent nights, Addison continued the pattern. There were no more sobbing fits in the bathroom, but Addison would keep her distance until he slept (or at least, seemed to sleep), whereupon she would snuggle into his embrace—his arm over or next to her body, her head and hand lying on his chest—until morning. As soon as he showed the slightest signs of consciousness, she'd withdraw to her side of the mattress. He savored the feel of her body against his while it lasted, resisting the realization that these brief interludes were the only indication he had left that Addison still wanted a future with him.

And as for the daytime? Mark learned to keep his distance-mostly as an increasingly begrudging acknowledgment that secret snuggling-snuggling so secret even he wasn't supposed to know about it!-was the only support Addison seemed to want from him.

Confused and resentful, Mark wished like hell that he had someone he could talk to about what was going on. However, his support system until now had consisted mostly of Shepherds, so . . . Derek? Next. Mrs. Shepherd? He hadn't really talked to her about any of the females in his life since he was a teen-ager, but if the woman he'd fallen in love with hadn't been Addison, he would have wanted to bring that woman "home" to meet her-but the woman _was_ Addison, so. . . . And the others? Derek's sisters could always be counted on to offer opinions when it came to his relationships with other women, even if they contradicted each other. In this situation, Nancypants would have been the ideal person to confide in. Both as a GYN and as the sister-in-law closest to Addison, she could let him know whether Addison's behavior fit within the normal ranges of reaction to a miscarriage or whether he should be concerned over something more. On the other hand, Lizzie had had two miscarriages before they diagnosed her luteal phase defect; she and Donal could provide moral support. Amy and Kathleen-no special expertise there, but-

"Idiot!" Mark growled at himself. Kathleen really didn't have any special expertise in this area-her practice specialized in adult survivors of childhood abuse-but the fact that she was a psychiatrist reminded Mark there was more than one department at Sinai that could be helpful. He'd wondered before about asking one of gynecologists whether he should be concerned about Addison's reaction to the miscarriage, but he knew that Addison didn't want him asking her staff for information that might connect her personal life to the gossip mill. A psychiatrist was less likely to know who either of them was-and besides, he could just say that he was asking about a patient. It was perfect.

No. Almost perfect. If people assumed he was willing to perform plastic surgery on a woman who'd just lost a baby, it would damage his professional reputation. Fixing people's outsides could help them feel better about their insides, but there were certain clearly defined groups who just weren't good candidates for plastic surgery no matter how badly they wanted it-and that included people who had recently suffered a traumatic loss. So, he'd change the story to the wife of a patient. That would work.

Mark grinned. He had a plan. A good plan. A plan that would work. And why shouldn't he? He was a man who'd perfected the art of unraveling relationships. He could find a way to reverse engineer the process. He was Mark Sloan.

And Mark Sloan had a plan.

He slept.

**divider-divider-divider**

Addison stared dry eyed at the ceiling, her thoughts caught in same whirlwind they'd been riding all week. Should she stay or should she go?

She should go. Savvy was right. But what came next? She still hated the idea of going back to the brownstone and couldn't think of anywhere else she might go that wouldn't involve awkward explanations. And Mark? Mark was Mark-incredibly sexy, and funny, and . . . and unexpectedly kind-a perfect distraction-and-at least for now-willing to do whatever it took to make her happy. She'd be a fool to throw that away, one part of her brain pointed out rationally, while yet another part-a part she hated-snickered at the phrase "at least for now."

Addison stifled a groan. She knew that the relationship couldn't last forever, and that it would be better to make her exit sooner rather than later. It made no sense to make an already incredibly complicated situation even more so. And yet-! It would be so much easier to leave if Mark would provide her with an excuse-something to convince herself that leaving was the only option and to forestall any attempt on his part to make her stay on the grounds of their "love." This would all have been so much easier if only she'd found a stray earring or an unfamiliar set of panties somewhere in the condo-or caught him coming out of an on-call room with a nurse. Why couldn't he just get it over with?

She sighed.

It was time to start making some real plans, and that meant admitting the truth. Despite her earlier illusions about Derek's belief in the permanence of their vows, he probably wasn't coming back. Savvy was right to advise her that she should be ready to offer him a generous settlement and avoid a court fight. Tomorrow-no, today, she corrected herself after she realized what time it must be, she'd see H. L. Winthrop, the family lawyer, about getting the papers drawn up. Even so, it didn't have to be _too_ generous, she thought spitefully; she might be the cheating spouse, but she was also the abandoned spouse. And, after all, she'd paid off all his student loans and provided the buy-in for the fancy practice he had taken over at the end of his residency; there was no way he could have become the darling of the Upper West Side so quickly without her money and connections. If she agreed to waive all claims to her half of his practice and hand over the brownstone (which she couldn't imagine wanting again, anyway), half of all their joint accounts, and ten years' worth of reasonable alimony payments so that he could continue to enjoy "the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed," she was offering him more than he would end up with after a protracted fight in court over their assets. That kind of fight would enrich only the lawyers and the tabloid reporters.

Another bonus to a quiet settlement was the fact that it would keep her family off her back. Well-at least it wouldn't make anything worse. After all the years she'd spent lecturing the Captain and Archie about their relentless libidos, it was beyond believability to expect that they wouldn't have plenty to say about her affair with Mark.

And as for her mother? Even though she had nothing to fear in the way of a rebuke or even a tease from Bizzy, admitting the truth to her would be a hundred times worse. Bizzy would never be gauche enough to speak directly to her about her transgression. WASP-speak demanded that the touchier the topic, the more heavily one relied on misdirection to communicate-to the extent that one communicated at all. But fear of her mother's reaction wasn't the point. She burned with shame at facing her mother knowing that she'd treated Derek the same way the Captain had treated her.

Some part of Addison knew the comparison was overblown, to say the least. Her own one-night stand . . . her desperate, incredibly stupid attempt to get Derek's attention-was so different in essence from her father's continual, barely veiled adulteries that they should scarcely even be mentioned in the same breath. And yet, late at night . . . it was hard to ignore the fact that she and her father had both earned the label of cheater. Or that she respected Derek's angry departure as a far more dignified choice than Bizzy's deliberate blindness to what was going on right in front of her. Or that she'd sunk even lower than the Captain by pretending to be in love with Mark instead of admitting that she no longer felt that way about him-if she'd ever loved him at all.

No, that wasn't fair. She _had_ loved Mark. Yes, she had. No matter how drunk she'd been, she had to have loved him to have fallen into his arms like that. For that moment, for that night, she had chosen him over Derek. She'd been drunk and angry and . . . and crazy, but she'd chosen him over Derek. What had she been thinking? She'd escaped following in her mother's footsteps by marrying a man who was faithful to her, and then she chose _Mark_! She couldn't, she _wouldn't_ do this to herself or to her someday children.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

Is This What You Call Love?

Chapter 8

_Ten-year-old Addison shifted her weight nervously from side to side as she waited for her brother, Archer, to show up for his morning run. Her windbreaker rustled as she shifted in the crisp October air. The chill did make waiting a bit uncomfortable, so she tried to distract herself by looking at the lush fall foliage. When the wind blew, the maple and oak trees looked like giant birthday cake candles, their rustling scarlet and gold leaves dancing like flickering flames. _

_Archie had to let her go with him today. He _had_ to. She really needed to talk to him in private, and there was no privacy at the mansion. The staff was everywhere—nannies and tutors; the Captain's assistant; Bizzy's secretary, Susan; the butler; the cook; and the maids—not to mention the guys who took care of the grounds and the horses. And this was a conversation she did not want spread around the house. _

_So, she'd run with Archie. If they stayed in one place and talked, almost anyone could find them and tell their parents what was going on. Running, they were free._

"_What are you doing out here?" Big brother Archer stood on the back patio with a guarded expression._

"_Can I go jogging with you today? I promise I'll keep up." Addison ran in place as fast as her little legs could go as evidence of the speed she meant to use._

_Archer frowned. "Mornings are for track practice. I practice _alone_."_

"_But-"_

_Archer growled, "Cut it out, Addie. Bizzy and the Captain told you not to bother me when I go running."_

"_I am NOT bothering you," huffed Addison. "I'm promising to keep up with you while you run." She mimed slashing a big X across her chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die." After a few moments of silence went by, she added, "Please! _Pretty_ please?"_

"_Go inside, Addison," Archer commanded as lunged forward to stretch his left calf. "Besides," he added as he shook his head, "You're supposed to be waking up now. Clara's going to tell Bizzy when she doesn't find you in bed, and you know what that means."_

"_I'm already grounded," Addison retorted sourly, setting herself on the stairs next to her brother with an audible thump. _

"_Oh, yeah. The cheating." Archer grinned. "Never thought Miss Goody Two Shoes would get into that kind of trouble."_

"_But I _wasn't_ cheating!" Addison exploded, her eyebrows knitted into an almost continuous line. "Cheryl passed me a note, but it wasn't about the test. Ms. Dunbar didn't even read it. She just ripped it up and gave us zeros."_

"_Too bad," responded Archer with a smirk. "I was starting to like you just a little bit better."_

_Addison glared. "It's not funny!"_

"_Oh, c'mon, Addison," he scoffed. "You know you're not supposed to be passing notes during a test." Archer pulled his foot behind him to stretch his quad. When Dunbar called . . . man! I thought Bizzy was going to ground you for a month."_

_Addison scowled but remained silent._

"_I thought you were lucky when the Captain walked in and said it should be for a week."_

"_Th-pbbt."_

_Archer stopped stretching. "You're blowing a raspberry because the Captain talked her into a week?" he asked, sounding amused again._

"_Th-pbbbbbbbbt." Addison was furious all over again at being reminded of the Captain's hypocrisy. She had a father who'd punished her for lying when just that week he'd told her to lie to Bizzy about spending the whole afternoon with him at his office—AGAIN! After she'd finished dissecting that frankfurter with a scalpel while the medical students worked on their cadavers, she'd gone with him back to his office, but she hadn't actually gone _into_ his office. The Captain went into his office to be with Ms. Johnson while she stayed in the aforementioned secretary's office to watch television. _

"_I hate him."_

"_There you are!" Clara, the nanny, stood in the back door, arms akimbo. The medium height, full-figured blonde normally wore an expression that could be called good-natured, if not actually cheerful, but at the moment, she looked anything but. "Addison, what are you doing out here? You know you're not supposed to leave without letting me know that you're going outside, especially when you're grounded. There will be no sneaking off on your own this week."_

"_I'm not outside, I'm on the patio," Addison pointed out grumpily. _

_Clara raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think you're in enough trouble already?" She clapped her hands briskly. "Stop bothering your brother and come inside the house NOW."_

_Addison folded her arms and stared at the ground. She had no intention of moving. Everybody else got to do whatever they wanted. The Captain could go out with Ms. Johnson and Ms. Clara and . . . and every other lady and lie about it. Ms. Dunbar could lie about her, and Bizzy could believe her. Archer could go off running and leave her alone. It wasn't fair._

"_Sorry," said Archer. "It's not Addison's fault. I brought her out here and forgot to tell you."_

_Addison looked up, startled, to see Clara smiling wryly at her brother. "Right. After weeks of asking us to keep your sister occupied while you run, and Louise telling me that she saw Addison slip out the back door by herself, you're telling me that you brought Addison out here?"_

"_Um . . . yeah," he stalled. "Well, I didn't bring her here. I told her to meet me here." Then he gave Clara a smile that would have been downright charming if his attempted manipulation hadn't been so blatant._

_The nanny shook her head. "I know you're trying to be a good brother, Archer, but your sister's not old enough to be going outside without a grown-up knowing her whereabouts." Clara sighed and turned to Addison. "For some strange reason, your brother has decided to cover for you. You can go with him, but no going off the grounds, and no visiting the stables. Rusty is doing without the pleasure of your company this week." _

_Addison grimaced. She hated being reminded about the worst part of being grounded—not being able to ride her beloved horse—but she wasn't stupid enough to say something that would convince her nanny to send her to her room. And it wasn't as if she needed the reminder. She was sure that her mother had already notified the grooms that the stables were off limits to her; there was no way she'd be allowed even a glimpse of those reddish brown locks until her sentence was up. _

_Clara looked at her watch. "You have seventy-five minutes to do whatever needs doing. Any longer than that, and you'll miss breakfast." With a last frown at Addison, she went back inside the house._

_Addison waited until the door closed before she spoke. "Thanks." Then she waited, confused. Archer sounded like he was going to let her run with him when he was talking to Clara, but he'd also told her that he wouldn't. Please, _please_,_ PLEASE _let it be true that he was taking her along._

_Archer shrugged. "Go get your bike."_

_Addison's confusion trebled along with her hopes. "You want to take me bike riding?"_

"_If you're riding your bike, maybe you can keep up with me," he pointed out as he started his walking lunges. "Hurry up! I want to get around the grounds at least once before breakfast."_

_Addison sprinted to the bike rack and came back almost immediately, steering her bicycle and wearing her helmet, pads, and gloves. She disliked the protective gear; not only did it look ugly, but her parents' insistence that she wear it whenever she rode was a reminder of her own clumsiness. In this instance, she also begrudged the extra minutes it took to finish getting "dressed" because she didn't know how long her brother would wait for her, given his initial reluctance to let her accompany him, not to mention her continuing ignorance of the reason behind his change of heart. On the other hand, getting spotted without the gear by anyone on the staff would lead to being sent back for it anyway, causing further delays, so she resigned herself to the inevitable. _

_Archer nodded as she drew in front of him. "We'll go that way," he said, pointing to the main gates, "and then left toward the duck pond. If we get there by 7:30, we'll go all the way around. If not, that's where we'll cut across and come back home."_

_As Addison started to mount her bicycle, Archer continued. "Ride as fast as you can, and I'll keep up with you."_

_The bike ride wasn't turning out in quite the way Addison expected. She'd underestimated the chilliness of the breeze, and she thought wistfully about the navy blue pea coat hanging in her closet. In addition, used to riding on paved surfaces or the manicured lawns, she found the dirt path a greater challenge to navigate, and the amount of concentration it took to keep going fast enough made conversation—the point of the exercise—almost impossible. She'd slowed down during one especially tricky stretch, but then Archer sprinted ahead and did jumping jacks until the terrain became smoother, at which point he resumed running beside her. She was cold, she was tired, and she was frustrated._

"_Take a break?" offered Archer. _

_Addison was so relieved to hear her brother's offer that she stopped pedaling immediately, only to see him sprinting toward the pond. By the time she caught up to him, he was already stretching by the bench. She sat down next to him with a sigh of relief and started rubbing her arms._

_"Cold?" he asked. _

_At Addison's nod, Archer took off the jacket he'd tied around his waist and handed it to her. "You should have said something."_

_Addison ignored him in favor of concentrating on wrapping herself up in the grey tracksuit jacket. The difference in their sizes meant that it fit easily over her windbreaker. Although it was lightweight, the residual body warmth it held felt wonderful, and the extra layer meant she'd be able to hang on to her body heat more effectively. Besides, she could pretend it was last week and the ducks were still gliding through the water lilies as they hunted for their breakfast. Sometime in the past few days, the entire flock had taken off for warmer weather down south. Even though she was now old enough to understand how Mother Nature worked things out, she still missed watching last spring's ducklings, now as big as their parents. They were the closest things she had to pets, other than Rusty, and Clara had been generous in taking her to visit them on an almost daily basis. _

_To her surprise, Archer immediately sat down next to her and propped his arms on the back of the bench. "Don't you have to stretch some more?" she asked, peering over the top of the jacket, which she'd drawn up to the level of her nose._

_"I'm still running back to the house, Addie. This is just a short break." _

_Disappointed but resigned, Addison nodded and started pulling up the jacket sleeves so that she'd be able to grab her handlebars the second Archer gave the word. She knew that making her brother mad now would mean that he'd disappear after breakfast and not make any time for her for the rest of the day, if not the weekend. She'd just have to try to get his attention later and hope that another opportunity for private conversation would present itself._

"_Why do you hate the Captain?" he asked._

_Addison's surprise at being given the opportunity to talk right away was soon lost in her indignation. She quickly recounted the story of her visit to the Captain's office, and added, "He tells me to lie lots of times. Whenever he drops me off at Anne's, or Catherine's, or Lucy's, he always tells me to tell Bizzy that I was with him when he picks me up. He shouldn't be punishing me for lying when he tells me to lie all the time. It's not fair!" By the time Addison finished her tirade, she felt ready to take action to fight the travesty of injustice that had been thrown upon her, and expected that her big brother would figure out a way to help her do that._

_Archer's arms were still propped casually on the back of the bench, but there was a tenseness to his posture that was reflected in his tone. His next words were unexpected._

"_What are you gonna do? Are you gonna tell Bizzy?" _

_Addison stared at Archer as she tried to convince herself that she must have misheard him. Tattle on the Captain? That . . . it . . . but . . . it just wasn't possible that Archer could have said that. The Captain was the Captain. Even though he was wrong right now, he was the parent who spent time with them; he took them sailing as often as the weather and his schedule permitted, and he took them to his job, not only to let them watch surgeries but also to let them use scalpels to take the skins off hot dogs in the lab, just as if they were dissecting something like real medical students. He gave them permission to dress like their friends instead of the mini-grown-ups for whom Bizzy seemed to shop. Bizzy was. . . . Bizzy was the Law. Tattling on her father would be like tattling on Archer. That just was not going to happen._

"_What?!" exclaimed Addison with all the disgust she was capable of expressing. "No!"_

"_Good." Archer relaxed and smiled. "I was afraid that you'd started thinking like a girl."_

"_I _am_ a girl!" Addison said indignantly._

"_No you're not. You're a kid."_

_Hurt and outraged at such baseless slander, Addison fleetingly considered jumping on her bike and heading for home, but resisted the temptation. She wasn't going to make his point for him by acting like a baby._

"_Jerk!"_

"_What?" Archer peered down at his scowling little sister, arms tightly crossed, and shook his head. "Come on, Addie. I know you're a girl. But you're still a kid."_

"_I'm in middle school now, stupid," she pointed out. "_Kids _don't go to middle school. _Kids_ go to elementary school." She might have gotten in because her birthday was the day before the deadline that would have made her wait another year before starting, making her the youngest student in her class, but she was a fifth-grader in middle school._

_Archer waved dismissively. "Fine, you're not a kid. But you're still not going out with any guys, so it doesn't matter, yet, about the Captain."_

_It doesn't matter. _It doesn't matter_. "It does, too, matter!" declared Addison, looking away and furiously blinking her eyes. She hadn't expected Archer not to care. And what did going out with boys have to do with anything? "The Captain can't tell me to lie and then punish me for lying."_

"_But you didn't really expect not to get punished, did you?" Archer asked, his tone making it clear that Addison would brand herself a fool with any answer but no. "Besides, when the Captain asks us to lie to Bizzy, it's a different kind of lie."_

"_Lying is lying. Besides, I'm _not_ lying!"_

"_But they don't know that. They think you're lying to get out of trouble because you did something wrong. When the Captain lies, it's not because he did something wrong."_

_Hmmm. Until now, Addison had never considered the rightness or wrongness of her father's actions, despite the obvious ethical difficulties posed by his repeated requests that she lie. The Captain had lots of friends that he liked to keep secret. It had made sense to Addison that he wouldn't want to tell Bizzy about his friends, since she and Archer talked as little about their friends as possible whenever their mother was in earshot. Bizzy wasn't someone who believed very much in fun unless it could be connected to the pursuit of excellence; she expected trophies and awards not only for their studies, but for their extracurricular activities, as well. Sometimes, it was nice just to hang out-and since the Captain was a grown-up, he shouldn't have to ask Bizzy for permission to hang out with his friends. So, why lie?_

_Addison expression turned pensive as she pursued this new train of thought, but soon returned stubbornly to her main thought. "It's still not fair to punish me for lying when he wants me to lie."_

"_You just don't get it, do you?" retorted Archer. "If you tell Bizzy about the Captain's lying, you'll cause a lot of trouble-maybe even a divorce. You don't want the Captain to move out and leave us alone with Bizzy, do you?" _

_Dumbfounded, Addison stared wide-eyed at her big brother._

_Archer stared back, scowling once it became clear that Addison was too shocked to respond. He muttered something too low for Addison to make out, and then stood up. "If you don't want me to call you a kid, then stop acting like one."_

_The normality of the insult gave Addison an anchor to cling to in the topsy-turvy universe her brother had just introduced. "You're crazy. People don't get divorced because they have friends."_

"_But wives do divorce their husbands when their husbands have girlfriends."_

"_So?" Addison shrugged._

_Archer eyed her suspiciously. "Are you playing dumb on purpose?" _

_Ready with an angry retort, Addison took a moment to process Archer's words, and the look of dawning realization spreading across Addison's face was matched by a guilty look on Archer's. "Oh, shit."_

_Addison had warmed up in the time it had taken to get to this point in the conversation, but now she was seized by a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "You're wrong."_

_Archer ruefully shook his head from side to side. "I'm sorry, Addie. I thought you figured it out, and that's why you were mad. I wasn't supposed to tell you."_

_Archer was wrong. Just . . . wrong. People who loved each other didn't cheat, and she knew that her father loved her mother. "I'll prove you're wrong. Let's go ask the Captain right now." Before Archer could say another word, she hopped on her bike and headed for the nearby path leading back toward the mansion._

_Before not too long, Addison could hear Archer behind her, frantically calling her name and trying to catch up to her. She ignored him. The sooner she could get back, the sooner she could put this stupid conversation behind her._

_Unfortunately for Addison's plan, Archer on foot was still faster than she was on wheels. He ran in front of her bike, forcing her to swerve off the path, thereby allowing him to grab at her handlebars. Addison and her bike teetered precariously for a few moments, but Archer was able to keep her upright enough for her to regain her balance._

_"Let me go!"_

_"Addison!" Archer managed to get out between short puffs, still keeping his grip firmly on the bicycle as he neatly evaded her attempt to kick him. "Let me talk."_

_"Talk to the Captain."_

_"No!"_

_After a staring contest that made it quite clear that Addison was determined to escape, Archer relented. After warning Addison that he was about to let go so that she could find her balance again, he stepped back. "Please don't go to the Captain. You'll mess up everything." _

_Addison scowled. _

_"At least, don't talk to him in front of Bizzy," Archer pleaded. "I'll get in trouble, but it won't be that bad if you don't get Bizzy involved."_

_Addison hesitated. She didn't want to get Archer in trouble. She just wanted him to stop believing such a crazy idea. "Then _you_ ask him," she ordered. "I'll just be there to listen."_

"_I can't!"_

_Archer's frustration was evident as he kicked at the gravel covering the path. He lifted his head and asked, "Look, can't we pretend that this conversation never happened?"_

"_Not when you're lying," insisted Addison, in a manner eerily reminiscent of her mother's._

"_Okay, I'm lying. I made it all up. Now can we finish our run and not bother the Captain and Bizzy? I'm a liar, okay?"_

_Addison shook her head in confusion. It was obvious that Archer was lying this time-but that meant that he believed he was telling the truth. "You're lying again."_

"_What do you want, Addison?" he exploded. "I'm lying when I say the Captain has girlfriends, and I'm lying when I say he doesn't. Take your pick! Just leave our parents out of it."_

_Never in her life had Addison longed more fervently to run home and lay all her problems in her father's lap. But the intensity of Archer's insistence that she not speak to either of her parents about this scared her, as did his earlier mention of divorce. She started to cry quietly._

_Archer stopped glaring as soon as he saw her tears. "Fuck!" he muttered under his breath, and then walked over and wrapped his arms around his little sister, helping her off her bike. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have said anything, but when you got so mad about having to wait around at the Captain's office while he spent time with Ms. Johnson, I thought you figured it out like I did."_

_Addison shook her head violently against his chest as he continued. "When they went into his office, she was wearing lipstick and her hair was in a fancy hairdo. When they came out, she didn't have any lipstick on and her hair was just pulled back with a rubber band. When I asked why, he told me that they were kissing and her hair got messed up."_

"_You're lying," Addison mumbled. She half-heartedly slapped at Archer's chest, but her hand never landed-possibly because her head was still in the way. _

_"You know, I'm not the bad guy here," observed Archer. "And neither is the Captain. He's just being a guy. And everything will be fine as long as we keep quiet."_

_At that, Addison lifted her head. "How can you say that? Husbands aren't supposed to have girlfriends." _

_Archer raised an eyebrow at that statement. "Then why do most husbands have them?"_

"_They don't!" retorted Addison. "If most husbands had them, then most grown-ups would be divorced."_

"_No. Most divorces happen because the husbands are stupid and let their wives find out about their girlfriends, or they let their girlfriends think they're going to marry them and then their girlfriends make trouble with their wives. Or a reporter writes about it. Then there has to be a divorce. But the Captain is careful to have lots of girlfriends who don't want to make trouble, so it's okay."_

"_That doesn't make sense."_

"_Girls don't make sense," retorted Archer. "Girls always want a guy to like only one girl, but guys like lots of girls. Wives are the same way, so husbands have a choice of either being miserable staying with one woman, or lying about their girlfriends and letting their wives be happy because they think their husbands are faithful, or telling the truth about their girlfriends and getting a divorce."_

"_But what about Bizzy?" asked Addison. Archer's tone sounded so reasonable, but there was nothing reasonable about what he was saying. It couldn't be right for the Captain to cheat. If it were, then he wouldn't have to lie, and Bizzy wouldn't have to be lied to. _

_"I don't think Bizzy wants to know. If I could figure this out, don't you think she could have figured it out by now, too?"_

_"You're wrong," Addison declared with a frown, fighting the realization that not only was her father a cheater, but that she had been his accomplice by helping to provide him with alibis. _

_"Think, Addison. How many times has the Captain told us to go hang out with our friends or given me money to take you places as long as we meet him by a certain time to go home with him and say we were with him?"_

_"That's because Bizzy never lets us do anything we want to do. The Captain lets us. . . ." Try as she might, Addison couldn't finish her sentence. The look on Archer's face-guilt, sorrow, and annoyance all fighting for first place-let her know that Archer believed he was telling the truth. And if Archer said the Captain told him he was kissing other women, then he was._

_She wasn't sure how long she had stood there in a dazed silence before she felt Archer trying to put his arm around her. "I'm so sorry, Addison."_

_At that, she got back on her bike and pedaled off, leaving Archer behind. After a long ride (during which she did smacked a couple of oak trees with a fallen branch so thoroughly that the gardening staff thought they'd been attacked by vandals), she returned to the house determined to keep her eyes open and make her own deductions._

_It didn't take long for her to confirm Archer's theories. The first woman she became aware of as her father's lover was her French tutor, Jolene. And Archer's tennis instructor. And she couldn't prove anything about the Johnson woman, but she did seem to stand awfully close to the Captain for someone who was only an assistant. And the bribes continued—permission for all-day shopping trips he bankrolled, overnight sleepovers at her girlfriends' homes that got relabeled as camping trips, even a few weekends in Europe with Savvy and her parents that were billed as father/daughter affairs for Bizzy's consumption. The lying drove Addison crazy because now that she knew the truth, she found it very hard to keep her stories straight. But even when she slipped up and told an inconvenient truth or two about what she'd really done, Bizzy never questioned her about it—so Archer was right. Their mother didn't want to know what was going on._

_As Addison got older, it grew worse, even though the requests for cover-ups grew fewer and fewer. Away at college and then med school, she got asked to lie about the occasional weekend when he was supposed to be with her, but then he'd balance those requests with weekends that he actually did spend with her, and she told herself that the rest was none of her business. (It helped that she wasn't asked to actually repeat the lies to Bizzy.) However, once she could join her parents at grown up events like fundraising galas—or even large dinner parties—she could see her father start to work the room whenever her mother was out of sight. She also overheard the comments made about her mother as the cheated upon wife; the pitying ones were the worst. No matter how often she tried to tell herself that she had no right to judge her parents' behavior, she was nonetheless embarrassed on her own behalf and infuriated on her mother's behalf—and she swore to herself that no matter what the psychiatrists say about repeating one's own childhood, that she would NEVER put herself into her mother's position. NEVER. _

**divider-divider-divider**

"Damn Savvy," she growled softly, just as she had during every other bout of sleeplessness since their shared afternoon. Her old friend had been relentless in pressing her for an explanation for her behavior, forcing her to hear how lame her rationalizations had sounded once they left her mouth. Addison hadn't actually admitted much during the conversation, but her conscience and a healthy dose of dissatisfaction with the choices she'd made finished the deconstruction Savvy had started. All that was left was for her to dump the happily-ever-after fantasies she'd constructed about both men and start working on regaining her life as a single woman-even though she didn't want to. Stalling that final decision was possible during the day-sick babies and their mothers (let alone the piles of paperwork and hours of supervision and instruction needed to run a department) could always be counted on as compelling distractions-but every workday had to end. This was what she hated about the nighttime now-there were no distractions from the increasingly likely prospect that she would spend the rest of her life alone. A prospect that undermined her determination to investigate Derek's intentions and to tell Mark the truth about how she felt about him and what she'd done about the pregnancy. Trying to make plans inevitably wound up with her wrapping herself around Mark in mostly silent bouts of touching because she still needed the illusion that she wasn't alone.

Frankly, Addison was ashamed of herself, but she didn't quite know how to change what she was doing. Anything short of a full confession-about the abortion, about her feelings-was less than Mark deserved, but she hadn't been able to pull it off. Even though she didn't want to spend the rest of her life with him, she couldn't face the prospect of losing him altogether-which is exactly what she expected would happen once she opened her mouth. Torn between need and guilt, and her embarrassment over both, she kept contact between them to a minimum outside of their time in bed and ignored the increasingly hurt, confused, and resentful looks Mark kept throwing her way when he thought she wasn't looking. It didn't take a genius to figure out this was not a strategy she could pull off for much longer. "Tomorrow," she promised herself. Tomorrow she'd hire a real estate agent and a private detective. She could do this tomorrow.

Having done all she could for the moment, Addison carefully moved backwards in the bed until her back was pressed firmly against Mark's side and she had positioned his arm under her head for a pillow. Only when she was sure he was unaware of her presence could she relax, enjoy the feeling of his skin against hers, and immerse herself in memories of how good a lover Mark could be. For the umpteenth time, she wished Mark had a different track record with women; no matter what his good points were, she knew she couldn't live the life her mother had lived, putting up with a continually unfaithful husband.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 8:** For _Grey's __Anatomy_ fans who did not follow Addison to _Private Practice:_ A three-episode arc (Sins of the Father [3.8]; The Parent Trap [3.9]; Blowups [3.10]) during the third season of _Private Practice_ gives some background information about Addison's birth family. Her father's numerous "secret" adulteries and her role as co-conspirator are actually a scheme devised by her parents to cover up Bizzy's long-term love affair with her live-in secretary, Susan Grant. In these episodes, it is obvious that Addison enjoyed a warm relationship with her father, who spent time with her in recreational settings (sailing) as well as served as a mentor (overseeing her slicing the casing off of hot dogs as a way to develop her future surgical skills). It is also obvious that her mother has a cold and distant personality that exceeds even the normal stereotypes attached to WASPS. (Given what is shown, it is possible to guess that Bizzy's coldness toward her children stems from her blaming them as the reason she is unable to come out of the closet, but there's also plenty of evidence that the woman is a living WASP stereotype of personal inhibition to all except Susan.) Throughout the series, Addison blames many of her relationship difficulties on the repression of emotion characteristic of stereotypical WASP culture, and eventually comes to blame her father's poor example for her own affair with Mark Sloan as well as her brother's compulsive sexual behaviors. In truth, her father desperately loves her mother and is pursing sexual relationships with other women as a way of marking time until the day (he hopes) that his wife will return to him.

In the fourth season, Bizzy divorces the Captain, marries Susan when it looks like Addison has cured Susan of cancer, and then commits suicide when Susan dies shortly after the wedding, leaving Addison to conceal the way in which her mother died and to give the eulogy at her funeral.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Author Note:** Sorry to be posting so late. Ffnet destroyed the formatting on this chapter for some bizarre and unknown reason, so I've spent most of the evening retyping it. Please forgive any typos. Happy reading!

**Move On**

Marry Me a Little

Chapter 9

"_Addison?__"_

"_Addison!__"_

_Ducking __into __the __nearest __doorway, __Addison __surreptitiously __crossed __the __first __two __fingers __of __both __hands __and __wondered __if __she'd __managed __to __get __inside __before __her __boyfriend __spotted __her. __Then __she __grimaced __at __the __word __"boyfriend." __At __any __other __time, __she __would __have __been __happy __to __know __that __Derek __was __trying __to __track __her __down __across __the __campus. __But __now, __right __now, __she __needed __some __time __to __establish __at __least __a__semblance __of __calm __before __she __could __face __him._

_Looking __around, __Addison __discovered __that __she'd __taken __refuge __in __the __main __student __cafeteria. __Fortunately, __none __of __her __friends __were __there, __so __there __was __no __need __to __put __on __an __act. __On __the __other __hand, __she __did __need __to __stay __hidden __for __at __least __a __few __minutes__ in case Derek had managed to spot her—but __there __was __no __one __she __recognized __as __a __current __classmate __to __study __with __and __she __had __no __books __to __use __as __camouflage. __Her __books __were __still __at __the __library__—__supposedly __being __watched __by __Derek. __She __shrugged __and __moved __toward __the __hot __water __dispenser. __Nursing __a __cup __of __juju __would __get __her __through __next __ten __minutes __or __so. __And __juju __. __. __. __might __not __be __what __she __really __needed __right __now, __but __it __couldn't __hurt._

_The worst part, Addison brooded as she grabbed her Styrofoam cup, was how humiliated she felt. Although they'd never said anything to make it official, she and Derek had been dating exclusively for the past couple of months. He hadn't mentioned anything about dating anyone else since . . . he took Cathy Dolan to that Phi Sigma thing right around Presidents' Day. And she . . . she hadn't accepted any dates with anyone else since coming back to campus after Christmas break . . . not after the entire Shepherd family waited for her arrival to decorate the Christmas tree. __Derek must have been behind that. __ And that hadn't been the only significant event.__ Mrs. Shepherd had reached across several bodies to kiss her during the Sign of Peace at midnight mass. Before then, Addison had been pretty sure that Mrs. Shepherd didn't approve of her. Maybe Derek had something to do with that, too._

_Besides, she knew the look of a man looking for a date. Oh, yes, she did! And Derek hadn't been looking recently. She could swear he hadn't. No surreptitious glances at other women when he thought she wasn't looking (but she was actually keeping an eye on him), no doubling back for "forgotten" items so he could talk to the woman he left behind, no mysterious evasions about where he'd be during the times they weren't together. (Yes, she had done some oh-so-casual spot-checking. Despite the potential for mortification if Derek had figured out what she was doing, the spot-checks had been worth it. Derek was always where he'd said he would be.))_

_They'd __even __talked __about __applying __to __med __school __together __next __year, __although __Derek's __original __list __of __schools __he'd __be __trying __for __was __limited __to __state __schools __with __a __few __New __York __private __schools __that __would __allow __him __to __stay __close __to __his __family, __and __she __had __been __intending __to __apply __only __to __Ivy __League __schools. __He'd __actually __agreed __to __add __her __two __top __choices __to __his __list, __although __he'd __also __warned __her __that __his __acceptance __to __those __schools, __like __any __acceptances __he __got __to __the __private __NY __schools, __wouldn't __mean __anything __unless __he __also __won __at least a partial __scholarship. She glowered. __Well, __it __looked __like __Derek could save some money on the Harvard and Yale applications now._

_Then _why_? _Why NOW? _They __hadn't __had __a __fight. __So, __why __had __Derek __interrupted __their __review __of __Lenz' __and __Faraday's __Laws __to __flirt __with Dao-ming__just __because __she'd __asked __to __borrow __his __endocrine __physiology __notes?_

_Addison __blushed __as __she __reran __the __scene __through __her __mind. __Derek __getting __up __to __search __his __backpack __for __the __right __notebook __and __then __leaning __against __the __table __in __the __same __sexy __pose __he'd __taken __in __the __picture __that __currently __resided __on __her __night __table. __And __the playful banter he usually used when trying to impress __a __prospective __date__—__as __she'd __heard__ him use it __many __times __while __they __were __both __playing __the __field, __she __reminded __herself. __And __that __smile . . . . __the __one __that __went __all __the __way __to __his __eyes __and __made __them __sparkle __like __sunlight __on __the __water.__.__.__._

_Yes, Derek was flirting, and doing it right in front of her. Maybe she'd read the signs wrong and Derek had never considered them exclusive, or maybe he'd just changed his mind. Either way, her life sucked just about now._

_"Excuse __me."_

_"Huh?" gasped a startled Addison. Standing beside her was another student who was also holding a Styrofoam cup, although his had a teabag in his while hers was still empty. She didn't recognize him._

_"Are you waiting to use the hot water dispenser? It's free now."_

_Addison's blush deepened as she realized she's been standing motionless for a while. She hurriedly stepped back and waved the other student forward._

_"Pulled a couple of all-nighters?" the scruffy-looking student asked sympathetically as he let the hot water flow ever his Red Zinger. "If your final is this afternoon, maybe you should try for a quick nap. Zoning out's not a good strategy for passing." He carefully pulled a plastic lid from the dispenser and placed it on the cup. Then he noticed Addison's woebegone expression and added, "Cheer up. At least you're not facing Rosholt in Calc II. Our motto before every test is, 'Caesar, we who are about to die salute you.' When his dramatic chest thump and subsequent extended arm got nothing more than a ghost of a grin, he shook his head. "Coffee's over there," he said, pointing further down the counter. "Better make it a large if you're planning on staying up, although I don't recommend it. Good luck with whatever it is you're taking," he offered before returning to one of the study groups in the seating area._

_"Thanks. You, too," murmured Addison after he was out of earshot, and grabbed a packet of hot chocolate powder. Her wish was sincere, even if she had sort of blown the guy off. He was right. She needed to take a break or she'd never get her focus back._

_No. She needed more than a juju break. She needed to go off-campus. It was too bad, given that she really could have used the extra hours in the library. On the other hand, she no longer had the presence of mind to study, and a shopping spree would provide escape and distraction. Fortunately, she'd remembered to grab her windbreaker as she'd headed out of the library; not only would it protect her from the predicted mid-day showers. it also held her wallet in the left pocket._

_A quick check reassured her that the was dressed well enough not to need a stop at the apartment to change her clothing, although her footwear was another matter. While the high-heeled, sisal-covered sandals were perfectly acceptable for a study date in the library, they were neither comfortable enough to make walking in them for an entire afternoon a good idea nor stylish enough to justify the discomfort. After a moment's hesitation, she shrugged. A shoe store was as good a place to start as any to start the expedition. Juju, then shopping. Maybe by the time she got back she could come up with a reasonable excuse for blowing off their review session two days before the final._

_Hot chocolate in hand, Addison was moving toward the table when she heard a slightly out of breath Derek come up behind her. "What happened? I asked Dao-ming to check both ladies' rooms when you didn't come back, and then I came outside. If I hadn't spotted you at the door to this place, I'd still be looking."_

_Damn!_

_"I need juju." Addison was careful to keep her back toward Derek as she continued moving._

_"Juju?" he repeated. "You left all your stuff at the library because you couldn't wait to get a cup of hot chocolate We had breakfast only an hour ago."_

_Taking a long sip of hot chocolate and firmly resolving to keep her cool, Addison pulled out her chair and carefully placed the Styrofoam cup upon the crooked table. "Yes, Derek, I need some juju. Our endocrine physiology final is day after tomorrow, remember?"_

_Finally seated, Addison flushed at Derek's continued confusion. Too late, she remembered that they's been reviewing their notes for physics, not endocrine physiology. Time to switch topics. "Besides," she sniped, "I had no idea you'd chase me out the library. You seemed preoccupied." Once the words were out, she realized she'd spoken without thinking, and waited tensely for Derek's response._

_Derek's eyes narrowed briefly at her accusatory tone, and then he shrugged. "Fine. You have your 'juju.'" Then he nodded toward the door. "Let's get back to the library before somebody takes our carrels. Mark won't watch our stuff forever."_

_Addison's eyes narrowed right back. "I'm not going back. I'm going shopping."_

_Derek stared at her quizzically. "Finals start tomorrow, and you want to go shopping. But not until you've had hot chocolate. Something's wrong with this picture," he murmured. Then he grinned. "Finish your juju, Addison, and I promise we'll spend as much time as you want going over states of definite energy, particles in a box, Schrödinger . . . and anything else you want." He moved behind her and gently dropped a kiss on her head before placing his hands on her shoulders. "Let me work some of that tension out for you."_

_Addison stiffened. "No."_

_"No?" Derek's hands stilled for a moment, and then began kneading. "c'mon, Addie. You know you feel better when I do this."_

_Addison stood up so hastily that Derek had to move quickly to avoid being hit by her chair. "This is the cafeteria, not my apartment," Addison hissed. "Keep your hands to yourself." Then she gave a brief shudder, as if she was seeking to exorcise the feel of his hands. too bad it didn't work. "In fact, I have an even better idea. Take your hands back to the library and leave me alone."_

_Dumbfounded, Derek spread his hands wide. "What is wrong with you today?"_

_For __a __nanosecond, __Addison __thought __about __confronting __Derek __with __what __was __really __on __her __mind, __but __then __the __temptation __vanished __almost __before __she __was __conscious __it __had existed__.__ "__Nothing __is __wrong __with _me_, __Derek __Shepherd,__" __she __said __coldly.__ "__It__'__s __finals __week, __I__'__ve __been __studying __nonstop, __and __I__'__m __taking __a __break.__"_

"_From __what? __We __were __at __the __library __for only __an __hour!__" _

_Addison __folded __her __arms __and __stared __impassively __while __Derek __shook __his __head. Addison, you have to get it together. If you can flip out like this over finals, what's going to happen when we take the MCAT next year?"_

"_What __I __do __about __finals, __or __the __MCAT, __or __med __school __is __my __business. __MINE. __And __I __have __shopping __to __do.__" __She __stared __back __at __him.__ "__Are __we __finished?__" _

_Addison __struggled __to __retain __her __impassivity. __Derek __had __some __nerve __talking __about __her __MCAT __as __if __it __actually __mattered __to __him __after __what __she__'__d __just __seen, __but __she __wasn__'__t __going __to __give __him __the __satisfaction __of __knowing __that __he__'__d __upset __her. She'd thought one thing, Derek thought another. fine. They were friends. Study buddies. Nothing more. They'd never even promised each other anything, and she was not about to humiliate herself by acting as if sshe'd been betrayed. She hadn't been betrayed. She'd just been stupid. And right now, right this very minute. she needed some space._

_She __was __entitled __to __some __space. __She__'__d __just __lost __a __boyfriend __by __finding __out __that __she __hadn__'__t __had __him __in __the __first __place._

_Derek __broke __their __staring __contest __to __look __at __his __watch.__ "__Last __chance __to __come __back __with __me, __Addison,__" __he __warned.__ I have to be at work at four, so this is the only time I have today to review with you. Phil asked me to change shifts with him so that he could cram from his chemistry final, and I'm finishing my philosophy paper after that." He waited for a response._

_Addison __shrugged __in __a __way __that __she __hoped__ looked __carefree, __but __suspected __that __it __actually __came __across __as __sulky. __She __resolved __to __get __a __better __handle __on __her __emotions. __When Derek frowned, she didn't let her expression change. __She __no __longer __had __to __care __whether __he __approved __of __her __actions._

"_You __really __want __to __do __this? __You __want __to __go __to __the __mall __instead __of __study __two __days __before __finals __start?__"_

_Addison __grabbed __her __hot __chocolate __and __started __to __leave. __Derek's hand jerked as if he wanted to keep her from leaving, and then decided against it. Unfortunately, his aborted move meant that his hand jostled Addison's hold on her cup. and that resulted in a dark brown splotch spread over he T-shirt and a soft shriek that turned all eyes in the immediate vicinity in her direction._

"_Addison, __I__'__m __so, __so __sorry, __Add__—__.__"  
_

_Without __so __much __as __a __glance __in __his __direction, __Addison __hurried __over __to __the __napkin __dispenser, __Derek __in __her __wake. When he grabbed some napkins and offered them to her, still trying to get her to acknowledge her apologies, she ignored his outstretched hand in favor of grabbing her own napkins and pressing on the now lukewarm chocolate stain.__  
_

"_Haven__'__t __you __already __done __enough?__" __The __chocolate __was __lukewarm, __but __her __voice __was __icy._

_Derek __placed __the __unused __napkins __on __top __of __the __dispenser.__ "__I __guess __I h__ave.__" __The __temperature __of __his __voice __now __matched __hers.__ "__What __about __your __books?__" _

"_I__'__ll __get __them _later_.__" __Ugh! She__'__d __forgotten __about __those __damned __books._

"_You __plan __on __letting __your __books __take __up __a __carrel __while __you__'__re __shopping?__" __At __this __point, __Derek__'__s __tone __was __tight __with __disapproval._

"_Fine! __Then __leave __them __by __the __circulation __desk. __I__'__ll __get __them _LATER_.__"_

_Derek __bowed __elaborately __from __his __waist, __arms __outstretched.__ "__Of __course.__" __His __voice __hardened. "Is there anything else the Poor Little Rich Girl would like to order before we ordinary students get back to our duties?" When all she did was glare, he left.__  
_

_Addison __stared __at __Derek__'__s __retreating __back. She knew that she'd been unfair. Sort of. however, she was too far that the end of her rope to care. Besides, Derek was out of line with that Poor Little Rich Girl crack; he knew she hated it when he made a big deal about their financial differences. "Fine!" she yelled. "Go back to your new study buddy. I hope you two have a wonderful time."_

_After __a __few __minutes __of __scrubbing __in __the __ladies__' __room __had __turned __the __large __brown __splotch __on __her __T-shirt into an even larger wet spot, Addison sighed. Now, she'd have to return to her apartment, if only to change her damp top. And her shoes. She wouldn't be forced to buy new shoes after all.  
_

_Actually, __she __wasn__'__t __really __being __forced __to __buy __anything, __she __admitted __to __herself. __Derek __might __be __a__t wo-timing __louse, __but __he __was __right __about __finals . . . and she'd left all of her bio and physics stuff in the library with him. Damn it! There was no way she was going to go back and watch those two flirt with each other._

_Addison __thought __about __her __other __courses. __She __still __needed __to __write __that __history __paper __on __Early __Modern __Europe. __The __research for that was already done, and the notes were still back at the apartment, along with her computer. And then there was the short story for that stupid English course. Okay. She could hole up in her apartment until 3:00-by which time Derek certainly should have left the library. She could count on having the library to herself for the rest of the day, since Derek would have to go to the computer lab to type his philosophy paper._

_She emptied the almost full cup of wasted juju into the sink and headed home._

**divider-divider-divider**

_Addison __stared __at __the __stack __of __notes __sitting __beside __her __keyboard __and __nodded __with __satisfaction. __Now __that __she__'__d __entered __the __quotes __and __references __into __their __proper __spots __in __her outline__, __all __she __had __left to do was write up the connecting bits that showed her own reasoning. If this went as well as she expected it to, she'd be able to knock out first drafts of the paper and the short story before dinner, which left her plenty of time for a good proofreading before she had to hand them in (the paper in three days, the story in four). After dinner, she's get back to physics and endocrine physiology. _

_Addison __seated __herself __and __began __typing._

**Introduction**

While historians disagree on the precise beginning and ending dates for the period known as Early Modern Europe, almost all of them would agree that the period stands between the religious superstitions and clerical control of weak nation-states characteristic of feudal Europe and the secularized concentration of economic and political power that enabled both the Industrial Revolution and the Enlightenment (Baez, 67-75). Many factors were responsible for the massive changes that occurred; the factors to be explored in this paper include:

- the "Protestant Reformation" (Brensinger, 158-210)

- the conception of scientific law (Reed, _Machiavelli_, 44-82)

- the change from a feudal economy to early capitalism and mercantilism (Pepe, 723-797)

- the creation of colonial empires (Muñoz, 98-154)

_Addison__'__s __concentration __was __broken __by __the __turning __of __the __lock __on __her __front __door. Someone was breaking into the apartment! She bolted out of her chair toward the phone, but before she could dial 911, she saw a familiar backpack enter her apartment, followed by a person's arm lowering said backpack to the floor._

"_Derek! __You __scared __the __crap __out __of __me!__"_

_The __backpack __thudded __to __the __floor __as __Derek __jumped __at __the __sound __of __Addison__'__s __voice.__ "__You__'__re __here,__" __he __observed __uneasily. "Sorry. You don't usually come back from a shopping trip this quickly. I used my emergency key to drop off your books."_

_The __two __looked __at __each __other __warily. __Were __they __still __fighting?_

_Addison __broke __the __stalemate.__ "__Thank __you, __I __think,__" __she __said __as __she __took __her __hand __off __the __phone. "Although a knock on the door would have been an even nicer surprise." She took a deep breath. "Thank you." Addison started retracing her steps to the chair she'd knocked over in her haste to get to the phone, but found Derek picking it up before she could. _

"_Let__me.__" Chair in hand, Derek took a deep breath and faced Addison. "I was a jerk before. You have the right to shop any time you want to." Without waiting for a response, he turned toward the desk to put the chair back in its rightful place. "I, uh, I. . . ." Whatever Derek had intended to say faded into nothingness as he stared at her computer screen. __Then __he __smiled.__ "__Homework?__"_

_Addison __rolled __her __eyes.__ "__Yes, __Derek. __Homework. __My __history __paper, __to __be __precise, __since __you __had __all __my __physics __and __endocrine __physiology __materials.__" _

_Derek __stopped __smiling.__ "__I __think __I__'__d __better __go.__" _

"_No, __Derek, __don__'__t __go,__" __protested __Addison, __regretting __her __snappish __tone.__ "__I __don__'__t __want __to __fight.__"_

_Derek __looked __doubtful._

"_I __DON__'__T. __Look,__" __she __said, __pulling __Derek __over __to __the __brown __and __black __futon __couch,__ "__sit __down.__" __She __took __a __deep __breath. "I'll be a perfect hostess. You must be thirsty after walking across campus. Let me get you something." __She __waved __at __the __refrigerator.__ "__Orange __juice?__ Soda? Beer? __Water?__" Addison might be disappointed, even heartbroken, but she was determined to hang on to her dignity. And if that meant pretending that she wasn't upset about what had happened at the library, then so be it. _

_After __a __few __moments __of __silence, __Addison __looked __down __to __see __Derek __staring __at __her.__"What's __wrong?__" she asked._

_Derek __cocked __his __head.__"I __should __be __asking __you __that __question."_

_Addison __raised __an __eyebrow, __feigning __surprise. __"Nothing. __Why __do __you __ask?"_

"_Addison,__" __he __said, __catching __one __of __her __hands __and __pulling __her __toward __him. __He __continued __to __tug __softly __until __she __sat __next __to __him. "I know something's bothering you. What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing,__" __she __asserted __firmly __this __time, __refusing __to __make __eye __contact._

"_I __know __you're __lying __to __me."_

_Addison __turned __her __head __unwillingly __as __Derek __grabbed __her __chin __and gently forced__her __to __face __him, __the __warmth __from __his __fingers __not __enough __to __counteract __the __chill __she felt come over her. The silence lasted for several minutes while Addison tried futilely tried to look anywhere but into Derek's eyes. _

_Derek __spoke __both __gently __and __firmly.__ ""__The __Addison __I __know __buys __more __clothing __in __half __a __semester __than __I__'__ve __bought __in __all __three __years __I__'__ve __been __in __college, __but __she __doesn__'__t __stop studying during finals week. Your parents could buy your way into any medical school in the country, but you work just as hard as I do to make sure you get in with your grades and not your family's money. I _know_ you, Addison Forbes Montgomery, and I know there's something wrong. Let me help." then he gave her one of those cheesy grins that always left her a little weak at the knees. "Please?"_

_The __silence __extended __until __Addison __could __collect __herself __long __enough __to __frown __and __jerk __her __chin __out __of __Derek__'__s __grasp.__ "__You__'__re __imagining __things,__" __she __declared, __standing __up. "I'm getting myself some green juice. Do you want anything? Yes or no?" Without waiting for an answer, she strode to the refrigerator for the custom blend juice she had delivered from the health food store every week-the juice he claimed was nothing more than liquefied grass and made mooing or whinnying sounds when he caught her drinking it. At the very least, she thought, it would give Derek something to tease her about and divert his attention from her mental state. Once things became less tense, she could ask him to leave._

_Unfortunately, __her __tactic __didn__'__t __work. __Derek __remained __silent. __As __Addison __sought __to __find __something,_anything_, __to __fill __the unnatural science, her mouth decided to forge ahead on its own. "So, how did things go with your study buddy once I left?"_

_Addison __could __have __slapped __herself __for __being __so __obvious, __especially __after __she __saw __the __irritation __on __Derek__'__s __face._

"_Mark? __This __is __about _Mark_?__" __Derek asked__incredulously, __standing __up.__ "I didn't bring him to the library, Addison. He came on his own. He has finals, too. Just because you don't like him is no reason for you to try to banish him from the library. Besides," Derek pointed out, his tome growing sharper, "I didn't even talk to him until you bolted out of the library and I asked him to watch our stuff."_

"_Not __Mark,__" __Addison __snapped. __Thanks __to __her __own __big __mouth, __there __was __no __way __out __of __this __conversation __without __humiliating __herself. __She __should __just __get __it __over __with.__ "__Her.__"_

_Derek__'__s __bewilderment __was __obvious.__ "__Her?__" _

"_Yes, __her. __Dao-ming.__"_

"_Dao-ming __wanted __to __borrow __my __endocrine __physiology __notes. __She __likes __the __way __I __draw __diagrams.__" __He __shook __his __head.__ "__Since __when __do __you __care __who __borrows __my __notes?__"_

_Addison __snorted.__ "__She __likes __the __way __you __draw __diagrams? __Really? __How __would __she __know __what __your __diagrams __look __like?__"_

_Derek __opened __his __mouth __and __then __closed __it __again __soundlessly._

"_Dao-ming __is __one __of __the __best __students __in __the __class. __She __tutors __in __the __science lab and already snagged a spot on Rachlin's NIH grant as a junior was flirting with you, Derek . . . and you were flirting right back."_

_Again, __Derek __opened __his __mouth-this __time, __to __defend him__self-and __closed __it __again __without __speaking. __Then __he __rallied.__ "__But . . . but you flirt all the time, even when I'm around. Why shouldn't I?"_

_Yes, __it __was __true __that __there __was __a __time __when __they __had __been __close __enough __in __a __platonic __fashion __to __share __their __romantic __adventures __with __each __other. While they has dated briefly at the beginning of their freshman year, their rapidly increasing confidence as they grew into their own looks made both of them eager to play the field rather than get tied down in exclusive relationships, although they relied on each other for friendship and academic support. Addison reveled in the opportunity to throw away her mother's strictures about dress and deportment while Derek happily jumped into a dating pool that hadn't been pre-poisoned by his sisters' gossip about him. While neither of them had approached anything near the number of "relationships" amassed by Mark, they'd both done as much dating as their academic and work schedules would allow . . . Addison even more so than Derek, as she had no part-time job taking up her non-academic hours. _

_Yes, __they__'__d __once __enjoyed __the __freedom __to __flirt __with __other __people __in __front __of __each __other. __But __she__'__d __thought __that __period __was __over, __and __she __was __wrong. __Fine._

"_There__'__s __absolutely __no __reason __why __you __shouldn__'__t,__" __she __said, __shrugging. "But you were supposed to be quizzing me on catecholamines, not listening to someone ooh and aah over your unseen notes."__ "__  
_

_Derek __looked __at __her __suspiciously.__ "__So __that__'__s __why __you__'__re __upset. __Because __I __spent __five __minutes __talking __to __Dao-ming.__"_

"_It __was __more __like __thirty,__" __shot __back __Addison.__ "__And __you __didn__'__t __have __to __encourage __her __to __stick __around.__"_

_Derek __raised __his __eyebrows, __but __otherwise __remained __still,__keeping __his __glance __carefully __fixed __on __Addison. A blushing Addison looked down at her sandals, aware that she's overplayed her hand by exaggerating the length of the conversation. Derek and Dao-ming couldn't have been talking for more than ten or fifteen minutes before she'd bolted from the room._

_She __peeked __up __to __see __Derek __grinning __at __her.__ "__So, __you __think __I __encouraged __her,__" __he __said __thoughtfully __and __with __a __small __grin._

"_You __did,__" __she __pointed __out __briskly._

_Derek__'__s __grin __grew __even __wider.__ "__And __you__'__re __upset __that __I __encouraged __her.__"_

"_You're __delusional,__"__Addison __deadpanned __as __she __stood __up, __aware __that __she __couldn't __stop __the __blush __that __was __flooding __her __cheeks __but __determined __not __to __allow __Derek __any __chance __at __getting __the __upper __hand __in __the __conversation.__ "__You__'__re __a __free __agent, __and __you __can __flirt __with __anybody __you __want __to __on __your __own __time, __but __not __when __you__'__re __studying __with __me.__" She walked back to her computer and sat down. So, since I can't seem to offer you any hospitality, and since you're not interested in studying, why don't you leave so I can get back to my paper?" She stared at the keyboard as her fingers curled in their customary position above the keys. "You know where the door is, Derek. Use it." _

_Silence._

"_They __were __right,__" __Derek __murmured, __sounding __both __surprised __and __happy._

_Out __of __the __corner __of __her __eye, __Addison __saw __Derek __settle __himself __in __the __chair __to __her __right. Even without looking, she could feel the smugness rolling off of him in waves. She decided that she would out-wait him and tried to refocus her thoughts on Gutenberg, but her efforts were useless. _

"_If __I __ask __who __was __right __about __what, __will __you __leave __after __I __listen __to __your __answer?__" __Addison __ground __out __through __gritted __teeth, __still __keeping __her __eyes __on __the __keyboard._

"_Nancy __and __Liz. __And __Mark. __They __were __right,"__said __Derek __happily. __You __do __want __to __be __exclusive.__"_

"_What?!__" _

_Derek __was __wearing __the __biggest __grin __she__'__d __ever __seen __on __him__—__at __least __until __he __saw __her __expression, __when __the __grin __faltered __slightly __before __returning. "You want to be exclusive, right?"_

_Addison __stared, __mouth __open. __Was __he __asking __her __to __ask __him __to __be __exclusive? This certainly wasn't the way she'd envisioned the moment when they would formalize the change in their relationship. On the other hand, she couldn't very well say no without making him believe that she wasn't interested. It was time to redirect. "Why are you talking about us being exclusive with Mark and your sisters?" she asked coolly, raising her right eyebrow. _

_For __a __second __or __two, __it __looked __as __if __Derek __was __going __to __insist __on __an __answer __to __his __question, __but __at __Addison's __raised __eyebrow, __he __deflated. "Mark was hassling me. . . ." Derek paused for a moment and started again. "Um, Mark was saying that I should just. . . ." When Addison's formerly raised right eyebrow joined the left in lowering ominously, Derek rushed on, cheeks reddening. "Mark was pointing out that I haven't dated anyone but you in a long time. Nancy and Liz said that Mark was right and that I should ask you about being exclusive."_

_"So, __this __is __their __idea, __not __yours," __Addison __commented __flatly. __Could __the __day __get __any __worse? And, finals or no finals, she was going to kill Nancy, who had promised he would keep a particular conversation secret from the rest of the Shepherd clan._

_"Yes. __NO!" __protested __Derek, __reddening. __"This __happened __a __few __weeks __ago.__" He looked down at his sneakers. "I didn't say anything because I thought they were setting me up for a practical joke," he muttered. _

_Addison __slammed __her __hands __on __the __keyboard, __eliciting __a __high-pitched __squeal __from __her __computer. __A __practical __joke? She'd show them a practical joke. She'd stuff every last one of them in a clown car, and. . . ! Addison stopped her mental tirade and started trying to make sense of Derek's comment. Then she smiled; the world looked considerably less bleak than it had a few moments ago. "so, Dao-ming was a test? To see how I'd react to you flirting?"_

_Derek __turned __even __redder, __but __he __met __her __eyes. __"No," __he __blurted, __and __then __seemed __to __reconsider. __Then__he__grinned__crookedly. __"Yes?"_

_"Brainless," __Addison __smiled __affectionately __as __she __reached __for __Derek's __hand. __"You __could __have __just __asked __me."_

_"Oh, __really?"__asked __Derek, __a __twinkle __in __his __eye __as __he __kissed __her. "__Asking __doesn't __seem __to __get __me __very __far __with __you. __You __still __haven't __answered __my __question."_

_"How's __this __for an __answer?"__she __responded, __sitting __on __his __lap __and __giving __him __a __kiss __that __left __them __both __uninterested __in __further __conversation._

**divider-divider-divider**

_Some __time __and __considerably __fewer __articles __of __clothing __later, __Addison __lay __peacefully __on __the __couch, __Derek's __head __resting __just __underneath __her __chin, __eyes __closed. __The sounds and scents of the soft spring rain coming through the open window had a soothing effect that added to the lethargy they naturally felt at a time like this. She knew-and she knew Derek knew-that they;d spent far too much time away from their books, but she was reluctant to disturb the peaceful bubble they'd created for themselves. Just five more minutes, she told herself, idly playing with Derek's curls._

_"You __know, __I'm __really __starting __to __like __this __couch."_

_Addison __peered __quizzically __down __at __Derek. __He __liked __the __couch? __The __ugly __futon __couch __he __knew __she __bought __only __because __she __knew __her __mother __would __hate __it? This couch, the couch they were occupying right at that moment? "O-ka-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y."_

_"For __sentimental __reasons," __he __clarified._

_Addison __tried __not __to __smile, __but __she __couldn't. The sheer relief she was feeling after the tempestuously way the day had started felt . . . happy. Like she was in a bubble of pure, unadulterated happiness. She bent her head down and kissed the top of his head. _

_Derek __lifted __his __upper __torso, __turned __his __head __so __that __he __was __facing __Addison, __and __propped the side of __his __head __on __his __fist. There was a twinkle in his eye that put Addison on her guard/ "You know, you owe Mark a thank you."_

_"Huh?"__So __much __for __the __bubble._

_"If __Mark __hadn't __been __teasing __me __about __not __dating __anyone __else, __Nancy __and __Liz __wouldn't __have __told __me __you __wanted __to __be __exclusive. "Derek lifted his head to face her, his blue eyes sparkling the way they must have on Christmas morning when he was a small boy. "Can I watch when you thank him?" _

_"Fat __chance," __Addison __retorted, __pushing __Derek __away __so __she __could __sit __up __and __reach __for __her __green __and __yellow __striped __blouse. They really should be getting back to work. "If I were going to thank anyone, it would be your sisters, not Mark. His contribution was accidental." She tossed his Dead Boys T-shirt at him.  
__  
For __a __split __second, __it __looked __as __if __Derek __was __going __to __press __the __issue, __but __then __he __just __shook __his __head __and __started __getting __dressed.__  
_

_As __she __continued __to __get __dressed, __Addison __reran __the __conversation __in __her __head. __Something __that hadn't made sense earlier started nudging itself to the forefront. "Derek, how could Liz and Nancy telling you I want to be exclusive be a practical joke?"_

_Derek __finished __tying __his __sneaker __and __looked __up. __"Funny, __I __could __have __sworn __you'd __met __my __sisters __before."_

_This __time __it __was __Addison's __turn __to __shake __her __head. The notion that the girls would have set him up for that kind of a joke didn't make sense. For one thing, she would have had to be in on the joke, and Addison didn't play those sorts of jokes. (Neither did the girls, so ar as she knew.) Still, Derek did get an awful lot of teasing from his sisters. He'd get a lot less if he'd act more like a brother than the father figure he'd tried to be ever since his dad had died, but that probably wasn't going to change. Anyway, it would take a much braver person than herself to bring up the possibility. _

_Time __to __change __the __subject. __"Do __you __want __to __study __here, __or __should __we __go __back __to __the __library?"_

_"Is __this __a __trick __question?"_

_Addison __shot __him __a __mock __glare, __but __admitted __that __her __question __had __been __a __silly __one. __Dao-ming would drop Derek's notes off at his dorm, as he'd already arranged, and they could study endocrine physiology from their notes after they finished reviewing the sample exams in the textbooks for tomorrow's physics test._

_Try __as __she __might __to __navigate __her __way __through __the __time __dependent __Schrödinger __equation, __the __mention __of Dao-ming reminded her of how humiliated she'd felt, and she didn't want to feel that way again. Maybe she was being stupid. Maybe she was about to wreck everything and make sure that Derek never saw her as anything but a casual friend, but she had to say something._

_Derek __sighed. __"Let's __look __at __the __answer __key. __Maybe __that __will __explain __it __better __than __I __can. "__He __started __flipping __pages __toward __the __back __of __the __textbook._

_"Derek, __I __don't __want __what __happened __today __to __happen __again."_

_Derek __cocked __his __head __and __smiled. __"You __don't __want __to __have __sex __anymore? __Now __that __we're __exclusive?" __He __shook __his __head. __"Your __timing __is __unusual."_

_"Derek, __I'm __serious," __replied __Addison, __working __hard __to __keep __her __voice __steady. "I don't want to see you flirting in front of me again. She swallowed and looked down. "I know men like to flirt, and I don't pretend to try to control what you do when you're not around me, but it's just too hard to see you do it in front of me." She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. "Please, don't."_

_"Addison, __what __are __you __talking __about? __Why __would __I __flirt __with __anyone __else __now __that __we're __exclusive?" __Derek __looked __and __sounded __honestly __confused._

_She __fixed __him __with __a __sober __stare.__" Because __you __love __to __flirt. __You __light __up __whenever __a __woman __walks __into __a __room."_

_Derek __shook __his __head __softly, __walked __over __to __Addison, __and __took __her __hands __in __his. "I promise," he said, and kissed her softly on the lips. "To never flirt," he added with another kiss. "With another woman," he said, continuing his thought with yet another kiss. "As long as we're together. . . ." He paused for an even longer kiss before saying, "whether or not you're in the room" He smiled. "Satisfied?"_

_"No __flirting __at __all?" __she __asked __skeptically. __"Even __when __you're __trying __to __convince __that __middle-aged lady at the library circulation desk to hold that book on fly-fishing for you, or to persuade Professor Randolph to to let you earn extra credit in organic chem so that B- on the midterm won't torpedo your grade?" _

_"That's __not __flirting," __Derek __demurred. __"That's __being __charming."_

_Addison __frowned._

"_You think I'm trying to score a date with Professor Randolph? I asked her for an extra homework assignment, not a date. She's old enough to be my grandmother!" Derek pointed out with a theatrical shudder. When that gesture produced no change in Addison's expression, he raised his right hand and looked into her eyes. "I solemnly swear that there will be no more flirting , in or out of your presence, for the purpose of getting a date." He lowered his hand. "I am the luckiest guy in the world to have Addison Forbes Montgomery as my girlfriend. The last thing I need in my life is another woman."_

_Addison __knew __she __was __starting __to __sound __whiny, __but __she __couldn't __help __herself. __"You __mean __it?"_

_"Yes, __I __mean __it," __said __Derek. __Then __he __added, __"Have __I __ever __lied __to __you?"_

_Addison __thought __about __that. __In __all __the __time __she'd __known __him, __she__ had never caught him in a lie or heard him mention lying to someone else. And he was promising to be faithful to her. Even when she wasn't looking. She wasn't sure she believed that a man could be that faithful. That sounded like a fairy tale, and fairy tales were for small children and Disney movies. But Derek was promising to be faithful, and Derek was trustworthy, even if his best friend belonged in the Guinness Book of World records for the number of women he'd slept with. Should she believe him? _

_She'd __try._

_And __if __it __turned __out __Derek__ really __was telling __the __truth? __Addison was surprised at the burst of optimism his words produced in her. She was no child; she knew how to keep her expectations reasonable. _

_But.__.__.__if?_

_If __Derek __could __show __her __that __kind __of __loyalty. __That __kind __of __love __. __. __. __then __he __was __a __man __she __could __marry._

_She __shook __her __head. __Time __to __get __back __to __the __real __world.__ "__So, __you __were __talking __about __looking __at __the __answer __key?__"_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

What's Your Rush?

Chapter 10

Mark fidgeted in the waiting room, trying hard to hang on to the glow of pride he'd experienced two nights ago when he'd come up with "the plan." He'd followed it, and it seemed to be working despite the unexpected twist. Andy Dapaah, an attending from Sinai's Psych Department, had assured him that his fictitious patient could rest easy about his wife, that people grieve in different ways and at different rates, and that it was hardly surprising that the patient's wife was still actively grieving a week after her loss. That part of the consultation had been reassuring until Dapaah observed that the patient's anxiety level seemed rather high over such a normal reaction to a loss-and that the man might benefit from a visit or two to a therapist himself. That notion startled Mark, but when Dapaah explained that the purpose of the proposed visit was to help the patient work through his own feelings about the event so that he could become emotionally available to his wife, he decided his plan could use a little modification.

Two days later (including several hours of electronic research on the publications and awards records of every psychiatrist in Manhattan who'd published anything on the topic of miscarriage), Mark found himself in the waiting room of Mykhailo Voloshin. Not only was this particular shrink double board certified (forensic psych and psych/neuro) with publications in prestigious journals and university presses, but also, most importantly-he was a guy. (Many of the miscarriage articles had been written by women, and Mark didn't want to run the risk of running into an old one-night stand.) The fancy Park Avenue address didn't hurt, either, although the four-hundred dollar check he'd been asked to write surprised him. The price seemed a little high for a consult (It wasn't as if the guy was going to do any cutting!), but Mark paid without either a wisecrack or a flirtatious remark to the pretty receptionist.

Psychiatrists unnerved Mark. They always had, including Kathleen. Especially Kathleen. He was used to Mrs. Shepherd being able to read him like a book, but she did that to all the Shepherd kids, too, so he dismissed it as a mom thing. Derek had stopped asking questions about his family once Mark made it clear that he didn't want to talk about them, and the rest of the kids hadn't even been curious enough to ask-except Kathleen-and she asked questions about things he _knew_ he hadn't talked about. He would accuse her of snooping, and she would defend herself by telling him that all she'd done was Listen when he talked. (He would almost hear her pronounce the capital L.) Mark hated the naked feeling she gave him, even though "Kate the Great" (his nickname for her whenever she annoyed him) never blabbed what she figured out to the others. In time, he learned to deflect her questions (Even later in time, she learned to stop asking them.), but he didn't have the same easy relationship with her that he'd had with the other Shepherd girls. And as for his professional contacts with other psychiatrists, they simply didn't exist. When he saw a patient who was an unsuitable candidate for plastic surgery for psychological or psychiatric reasons, he simply gave them a brief explanation and a referral. If they needed more handholding than he wanted to provide, he had them sit with Robin, a nurse he'd hired specifically for her experience at the Bellevue psych clinic.

And now here he was in a psychiatrist's office, waiting to be cross-examined. "No," he reminded himself, "I'm here on a consult for Addison. I'm the client, not the patient, with a $400.00 consultation fee putting me in charge of what happens here." Mark checked his watch; it was still a few minutes early. More as a distraction than because he had any real interest in the artwork, he forced himself to amble over to the opposite wall to inspect an Abstract Expressionist painting that reminded him of one that Addison's decorator had picked for Derek's private office.

"Dr. Sloan, come in, please."

Mark quickly sized up Voloshin's private office as he walked in. It looked different from the outer areas, which could have easily passed for those at his own practice or that of any number of other doctors on the upper West Side-a minimalist look with light, neutral colors and carefully designed lighting that conspired to give the room an illusion of open space, that most rare and therefore prized commodity in any New York City home or office. And, of course, artwork created by people who were already making themselves known in the upscale galleries. Voloshin's private office, on the other hand, seemed . . . smaller? cozier? The differences were subtle-softer lighting, warmer color palette, and a collection of Eastern European artwork that looked idiosyncratic enough to reflect the taste of a single person rather than a trendy look put together by a decorator. Without quite noticing that it had happened, Mark relaxed slightly as he seated himself in a comfortable easy chair across from the psychiatrist. The man was older than he'd expected, easily old enough to be his father, but with a look of concern he didn't remember ever seeing on his father's face. "I'm so sorry to hear of your loss."

Mark acknowledged Voloshin's expression of sympathy with a quick nod of his head. He wasn't here to talk about his feelings.

Voloshin waited just long enough to give Mark a chance to respond at greater length if he wanted to without letting the silence become awkward. "So, my nurse tells me you insisted on an immediate appointment because you're worried about your girlfriend's reaction to her miscarriage. Do you think she's in danger of hurting herself or someone else? Are you asking me for a psych hold while I evaluate her?"

"No," said a startled Mark, suddenly realizing how his insistence on being seen right away would sound to a psychiatrist. "Nothing like that. I'm just worried about her. She's not acting like herself these days."

Voloshin nodded. "Well, that's understandable. Let me start with a few questions, so I can get a sense of what 'not acting like herself' means, and then we can decide what happens next." At Mark's nod of acquiescence, the psychiatrist ran through a checklist that established that Addison's eating and work routines had remained unchanged, as had her care for her appearance (although the new blonde look was unnerving, to say the least) and her ability-so far as he knew-to function normally at work. Addison's nighttime behavior took a few minutes of discussion, but once that was done, Voloshin sat back in his chair. "It sounds like you're right, and she's not in any immediate danger. Good. So tell me," he said conversationally, "what was so urgent that you forced my nurse to schedule this meeting as an emergency?"

Mark hesitated, caught on the horns of a dilemma. If he took back everything he'd just said and lied about Addison's state of mind, he'd be forced into getting a court order for a psych hold-a thing not designed to make Addison any happier with him. On the other hand, if he admitted he'd lied about the supposed emergency, he was likely to be shown the door.

Once again, Voloshin kept the silence from drawing out to an embarrassing length, although the timing was close. "Come on, _Doctor_ Sloan" he urged gently. "Even a plastic surgeon knows that recovering from trauma takes more than a week, and your girlfriend seems to be doing a remarkably good job of coping while she recovers." Voloshin spread open his hands in front of him and asked gently, "So what aren't you telling me? What has you so worried?"

Mark tried to find an answer to the question that made sense from a medical standpoint, and couldn't. Addison was doing well by any reasonable standard-but the whipsaw changes in attitude from daytime Addison to nighttime Addison and back worried him, and her unwillingness to let him touch her outside of sex roused fears he couldn't even name, let alone discuss.

Voloshin sat calmly, waiting for Mark to begin.

"I want to help her," Mark finally admitted. "I want to help her, and I don't know how."

"Help her with what?"

Mark flashed the psychiatrist an irritated look. "Isn't it obvious?"

Voloshin met Mark's glare with a determinedly innocuous stare of his own. "Forgive me, Dr. Sloan," he said dryly, steepling his hands in front of him. "I'm an old man, and old men get confused easily. When a doctor schedules a consultation and can't tell me what kind of advice he needs, I ask for more information." He paused a moment to let that sink in, and then pointed toward the door. "Have you seen the sign there? It says 'Mykhailo Voloshin, M.D.' I'm a psychiatrist, not a mind reader."

Mark stared at the floor. He couldn't blame Voloshin for being pissed about the non-emergency. But it was—well, not an emergency, but it was important. Addison was drawing deeper and deeper into herself every day, and eventually there were going to be consequences. He knew it, even if he didn't know how to put that knowledge into words.

A sigh startled Mark into looking up.

The change in Voloshin's demeanor was clear; everything seemed to have softened, including his tone of voice. "Mark, I'm sorry. My receptionist told me you'd called for a consult and I took her at her word. Of course you're here as a man who's worried about his girlfriend." The psychiatrist studied the hunched shoulders and tensed jaw line of his patient for a moment before continuing. "We'll sit and chat for a bit. See what comes up. We'll find the answers together." He smiled reassuringly.

Mark hesitated for just a moment, and then nodded slowly, accepting the invitation that had just been offered. In that moment, their conversation changed from a consultation to a session and he changed from a colleague to a patient. Despite Dapaah's suggestion that he seek help for himself, this wasn't what he had planned-but it was what he had to do.

This time, Voloshin let the silence stretch for a slightly longer period, and Mark swallowed uncomfortably. He'd already told the psychiatrist everything he knew about Addison's behavior, and couldn't think of any other information that might be helpful. The moment felt like he was back in school, where teachers always had the uncanny ability to figure out when he hadn't done his reading.

"So, what would you like to talk about?" asked Voloshin amiably.

Mark shrugged. "I thought you were the one asking the questions."

"I am," Voloshin smiled. "I asked what you'd like to talk about."

Mark shrugged again.

"Got it. I ask the questions." Voloshin cocked his head to one side. "It's a hard thing to lose a child," he said sympathetically. "You lose not only the child, but all the hopes and dreams you had for the child-and for the future you would have had with that child. Tell me-if the baby had lived-what would that child have meant to you?"

Mark sat back in the chair as he allowed himself to explore the feelings he'd walled off as soon as Addison had given him the bad news. He remembered the wildly happy talk he and Addison had shared during their celebratory dinner and the plans he'd started making to find them a home they could share. It hurt just as much as he'd expected it would, but, to his surprise, there was sweetness mixed in with the bitterness.

Eventually, Mark realized that the doctor was waiting for an answer, and he struggled to find a way to explain what he'd been thinking about without having to recount all the details. He finally settled on, "We would have been a family."

Voloshin nodded his understanding. "So, you and your Addison are not a family now?" he asked.

The question brought Mark up short. Ironically, he and Addison had unquestionably been family before the affair because of their connection through Derek. Now? He didn't quite know what to call them. "It's complicated," he offered, hating how lame that sounded even to his own ears.

"Most families are," offered Voloshin with a twinkle in his eye, forcing a harsh bark of laughter from Mark.

"It's good to see we agree on something, Mark. So, why don't we talk about your complicated family?"

Mark's expression immediately darkened. "No offense, Dr. Voloshin," Mark grated harshly. I don't have any family. Except Derek." He was visibly radiating tension, and it would have been clear even to a casual observer that Mark was ready to bolt if pushed.

Dr. Voloshin settled back in his chair and folded his hands. "Okay, then, let's talk about Addison's family. How do the two of you get along with them?"

Marked shrugged. Because of Addison's desire to distance herself from her parents, they hadn't played much of role in his plans for the future. "Okay. I probably get along with her parents better than she does, but we don't spend much time with them. Her brother, Archer, is okay. We went to school together. I probably spent as much time with Archie than I did with Addison back then." Mark grinned at the memory of some of their escapades. Because Archer was similarly devoted to the pursuit of as many different women as possible, he had taken some of the heat off Mark when their less adventuresome friends objected to the way they spent their free time.

"That's good," offered Voloshin blandly, "that you get along with her family. Does Addison get along with your Derek?" While Mark simply stared at him, wide-eyed, the psychiatrist remained comfortably settled in his chair and gave every appearance that he was willing to wait for as long as it took to get an answer.

Mark opened his mouth soundlessly, wondering whether he should simply leave. He didn't want to waste time discussing the history of their relationship. Derek, damn it, was the past. He needed something to fix Addison in the here and now. Time to misdirect. "They don't get along anymore," he muttered.

"That must be hard," Voloshin commented thoughtfully. "Is that one of the problems? You and Addison aren't a family because she doesn't get along with your family?"

Mark could feel his temper growing shorter. "It's complicated. I've already explained that," he growled. "Can we move on?"

"Of course," said the doctor deferentially. "The only reason I brought up the issue of family is because you did. Let's talk about something less . . . complicated," Voloshin said with a smile that invited Mark to share in it-which he did with a begrudging lift to the left corner of his mouth. "That's better."

"So what would you like to know about Addison?" asked Mark briskly, trying to regain control of the conversation.

Voloshin looked at his patient thoughtfully. "I think we've talked enough about Addison for now. Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

Mark tensed. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything at all," said Voloshin guilelessly.

Mark wondered what that was supposed to mean. Was he supposed to start talking about his feelings, or could he get away with small talk? He decided to opt for the latter. "I'm a surgeon," he began. "Double-certified in plastics and ENT. Office on 97th and Park."

"Nice neighborhood," commented Voloshin. "Does that mean that you're at Sinai? Or private practice?"

"Both." Mark smiled. "I admit most of my patients to Sinai, but I'm in private practice with Derek Shepherd. Neurosurgeon."

Voloshin furrowed his brow at that revelation, and Mark gazed at him, wondering why Derek's name would cause that reaction when he made the connection himself and swore under his breath. He'd already said that Derek was his only family. Chagrined at his own stupidity for giving the man the perfect path back to discussing Derek, he waited apprehensively for the next question.

"Now I remember. Didn't he have an article in the latest AANS journal?"

Relieved, Mark tried to remember whether he'd seen Derek's name on one of the journals in the ever-growing piles of mail on Derek's desk as he stretched his neck and shoulders, trying to get some of the tension out of his trapezius. "Yeah."

Voloshin nodded. "It was a good article. Your partner must be an excellent surgeon. I hope he follows up with a study to see whether his results can be replicated."

Mark laughed briefly to himself at Voloshin's assumption that Derek had the guts to pull off a clinical trial. Derek was one of the best neurosurgeons in the country when it came to surgical technique. He could pull off risky surgeries that more experienced surgeons wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole because he had some kind of special intuition that let him find stuff even when the tests were inconclusive. Put a scalpel in his hands and he was a master. (Although already aware of Derek's reputation as a surgeon of last resort, Mark had been unpleasantly surprised to find out at his first conference with their Office Manager that their malpractice insurance rate was sky high because Derek took on so many high-risk surgeries. Derek saved lives that no one else could have, but that didn't mean his mortality rate wasn't high enough to let the insurance company get away with charging them a fucking fortune for letting him simultaneously indulge his daredevil side and grease his professional reputation. Maybe Derek had a point about reviewing the books to find out what was going on in the practice.) Still, Mark had never seen Derek volunteer to head up a high-risk study; Derek claimed that he couldn't stand having to assign patients to a substandard treatment for the control group, that such treatment amounted to little more than killing people for sport. Mark suspected Derek's problem had less to do with the ethics of double-blind studies and more to do with not being able to accept in advance that some of his patients would inevitably die. Derek had never been able to accept the inevitability of failure.

Mark frowned, uncomfortably aware he'd let himself get sidetracked. Derek was gone, and his surgical record had nothing to do with Addison, anyway. It was time to get ready for the next question. Mark raised an eyebrow, indicating his willingness to move on.

Voloshin spread his arms apart with his hands fully open, indicating his willingness to let Mark take the lead this time.

Mark narrowed his eyes. The only person he wanted to talk about was Addison, and Voloshin had put her off limits as a topic of conversation. What else was left? Shop talk? Sports? This was a waste of time. So much for the fancy psychiatrist.

Just as Mark was deciding to excuse himself from the session, Voloshin spoke up. "I was wondering—and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, because we agreed that we wouldn't talk about any complicated subjects—is whether Derek Shepherd is the Derek you claimed was your only family?"

Busted. Mark carefully kept his expression neutral as he tried to decide whether to answer, and then became angrily embarrassed at his own evasion. "Yeah," he declared roughly as he raised his chin. "We grew up together."

Voloshin, too, kept his expression neutral, although in a far more relaxed manner than Mark had managed to achieve. "Must be interesting to work with family," he said off-handedly. "So, what else should I know about you?"

Mark weighed his options. Leaving was definitely one of those options, but he was still no closer to enlightenment about Addison's state of mind than when he'd walked in, and fending off the psychiatrist's questions wasn't helping him get there. He decided he was tired of playing the mouse to Voloshin's cat. "Fine," he grunted. "I'll tell you all about Derek and me. And Addison."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Voloshin smiled. At his patient's angry scowl, he added, "Mark, you may not realize this, but I can't open my patients with a scalpel the way you can. I have to be patient and wait until they are willing to open themselves up. You're doing exceptionally well."

Mark looked up sharply at what sounded like an incredibly condescending comment, but all he saw was a calm and collected physician waiting quietly for his next words. Mollified by Voloshin's praise despite a lingering resentment at feeling forced to discuss a part of his life he would rather have kept to himself, Mark leaned forward. "The first thing you have to know is that Derek and I have been best friends since we were kids." As Voloshin nodded his understanding, he continued. "The second thing you have to know is that Addison was Derek's wife." Mark waited tensely for the psychiatrist's reaction.

Voloshin continued to sit quietly for a few moments, and then said neutrally, "I see."

"No, you don't see," Mark retorted angrily, sure he'd caught a note of censure in the psychiatrist's voice. "It wasn't like that."

"It wasn't like what? I haven't likened your relationship to anything," Voloshin pointed out in an irritatingly reasonable tone. "You haven't told me enough for me to have any idea of what 'it' was like.'"

Mark grunted in irritation, and then subsided. The heretofore unnoticed ticking of the grandmother clock made itself known as the seconds and then the minutes passed by. Now that the moment had come, he didn't quite know where to start. The beginning of the affair, the night he first realized he needed to keep his distance from Addison, was too hard to pinpoint—and besides, the guy had asked about Derek. So, he started at the beginning, at breakneck speed.

He talked about grade school, when Derek had been just one of the guys until Mrs. Shepherd had insisted that Derek start bringing him home on nights when his parents were out. (He didn't mention, though, that the reason he'd been alone all those nights was that his mother refused to keep any more overnight staff, including his former nanny, because she was sick of the way his father treated all female staffers as his harem.) Then he talked about being "adopted" by Derek and his family-being taken along on camping trips with Derek and Mr. Shepherd and being held accountable for his actions by both Shepherd parents (although his memories of Mr. Shepherd were relatively few because of the man's untimely death). He talked about how the family celebrated his birthdays and his graduations along with Derek's, with Mrs. Shepherd making sure he was included in the family photos. (He didn't mention, though, that she'd refused to let him call her "Mom" out of respect for his biological mother-and how he'd hated his mother for it.) He talked about being taught to dance by the older Shepherd girls and being pressed into service as a date for the younger Shepherd girls for their first school dances. (He was careful not to discuss how he'd been involved in some of their other rites of passage; he'd promised.)

But mostly, Mark talked about Derek-how great it had been to find someone who-no matter how much he made fun of him-accepted him for who he was. Someone who had his back, who was happy enough with his own family not to resent the money Mark got from his-and smart enough not to resent Mark's equally good grades. He talked about playing sports with Derek (until the differences in their size and strength made the competition no longer fun and Mark threw himself into football while Derek played saxophone in the band at halftime). He talked about providing a united male front against the overwhelming female presence in the household, especially after Mr. Shepherd was murdered. He talked about their blood brother ceremony at age seven and how he'd always been welcome in the Shepherd home as Derek's best friend, even when Mrs. Shepherd had been deployed and Grandma Mahoney had moved in as head of the household for the duration. He talked about their shared interest as kids in science and Derek's dream of becoming a surgeon that eventually convinced him that he should be one, too. He talked about the fact that not even Derek's marriage to Addison had been able to end the relationship between them, even though they'd been forced to adjust.

Lost in the past, Mark stopped talking, his eyes resting unseeing on a nearby glass bowl full of oddly primitive-looking _pysanky_. Voloshin waited for a few minutes to see if Mark wanted to continue speaking, and then followed his gaze to the glass bowl. "My grandchildren decorated those eggs for Easter," he offered gently. "I promised to keep them in my office because Lavro and Marinochka were so proud of their work."

"Huh?" Mark looked up, clearly startled at what he considered a random comment, and then glanced back at the bowl as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Nice eggs," he commented absently, and shifted his gaze once again, this time focusing on the dust motes dancing in a skinny shaft of sunlight let in by a slightly bent slat in the venetian blind. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to go on, and staring at the dust motes provided a worthwhile distraction from memories that were so good, they hurt.

He knew he'd been right to avoid thinking of Derek, for the most part. Bringing back the unrecoverable past was a waste of time. No, it was worse than a waste of time. It was a trap. He'd walked into the office full of energy, looking for a plan to help Addison recover from losing the baby, and now he felt engulfed in a wave of depression. He'd been an idiot to think this appointment was a good idea.

"Did you love her then? When Addison was dating Derek?"

Mark was almost glad at the stupidity of the psychiatrist's question because it provided a welcome distraction from his thoughts. "What makes you think I'd wait around eighteen years for a woman? I can have any woman I want, any time I want." He gave Voloshin a disgusted glare, making his unspoken "what the hell is wrong with you?" perfectly clear.

Voloshin accepted the rebuke silently with a deferential nod of his head and a slight closing of his eyelids. Then he fixed a steady eye on Mark. "So what changed?"

"Derek," popped out of Mark's mouth before he'd even had a chance to think about what his answer should be.

Voloshin again nodded as an acknowledgement that he'd heard Mark, and stayed silent.

Mark tried hard to swallow, but the lump that had suddenly lodged itself in his throat refused to go away. What he'd said was true, but hearing it out loud made him feel like a wuss. He wasn't about to make excuses for what he'd done. For what he and Addison had done. They'd fallen in love with each other. And maybe it wouldn't have happened if Derek hadn't all but disappeared off the face of the planet, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he and Addison loved each other now—but Addison was too affected by losing the baby to remember that.

Fuck! The last thing he wanted to do was to stay, but he needed this man's help to bring Addison back to normal. So Mark began talking again-more slowly this time, and with occasional prompts from Voloshin. He spoke about the early camaraderie he, Derek, and Addison had shared when they'd had no choice about working insane hours even after they'd finished their residencies because of the high profile careers they'd all chosen. For the first year, Derek had taken over a private practice, and then continued to handle all the management responsibilities after Mark finished his ENT board certification and bought a private practice of his own, sharing office space and some of the bills with Derek's practice. Addison, too, continued her studies, working on a Ph.D. and a fellowship in genetics on route to becoming a department Head at Sinai. However, there had come a point when he and Addison (and most of their friends) had realized they could take time to relax. In contrast, Derek had decided his goal was becoming Chief of Surgery at Sinai-a ridiculously difficult position to achieve for someone in private practice-and so had thrown himself into his work with an intensity that left little room for family or friends.

Mark spoke of Addison's bravery during this time, refusing to ask Derek to change his behavior even though she was hurt by it. And her semi-consistent attempts to reject his pity. And how he'd tried to avoid his feelings by continuing to date other women simply for sex. And how different-but mostly good-it was to find out he could be someone a woman could depend on. And he spoke of the growing amounts of time they'd spent together, and how that time had allowed them to get to know each other, and to fall in love.

As tired as if he'd just finished a fourteen-hour surgery, Mark sat back, a look of grim satisfaction decorating his face. "Now, you've heard everything," he declared, letting some of his impatience bleed through his tone. "So what should I do?"

"About what?"

The question hung in the middle of room, flapping as invitingly as a matador's cape-and Mark was tired of feeling toyed with. The jerk had promised to help in exchange for him spilling out his guts, and all he had to offer was more questions. "So this is what you get paid four hundred dollars an hour to do? Just throw patient's questions back at them?" he challenged. "I should have gotten a piece of this racket instead of wasting all those years refining my surgical technique."

Voloshin lifted an eyebrow as he steepled his fingers, and Mark had the distinct impression that the psychiatrist was considering his words carefully. "You ask me what you should do, as if I have the answer to your problem. You told me that your girlfriend isn't talking to you the way she used to because she's upset over her miscarriage. If that's true, and if that's all there is to the story, then you need to do is give her some more time before you start assuming she needs psychiatric help. But you know that, don't you?"

Mark glowered darkly at the implication he was either stupid or lying. Unperturbed, Voloshin continued.

"Let me ask a few more questions. Why didn't you talk to Derek?"

"I already told you," Mark growled. "She didn't want me to."

Voloshin shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I'm not asking why you didn't talk to Derek about his relationship with Addison. I'm asking why you didn't talk to Derek about his relationship with you."

Mark started visibly.

"You know, I really don't know either one of you," he continued conversationally. "I don't know Addison at all, and I know very little about you. But in my experience, when people don't chase after something they claim to want, one of two things is true, whether they know it or not. Either they don't really want what they say they want-or they let their fear of failure prevent them from trying to get what they want.

"Addison was angry and depressed. She wasn't afraid," interjected Mark, insulted at the imputation of Addison's cowardice.

"You could very well be right," the psychiatrist nodded agreeably. "But maybe-follow me for a minute here-how would she have felt if she'd told her husband how she felt and he kept on ignoring her? Or if he agreed with her that the marriage wasn't any good anymore and asked for a divorce?"

Mark inhaled sharply, rocked by a possibility he'd never even considered. What if there had been another way to get what he wanted? A way that didn't have to have cost him his family?

Voloshin let the silence rest for a little while as he watched Mark process his thoughts. Then he added softly, "And you, Mr. It-happens-families-don't-hang-out-together-as-gro wnups-the-way-they-did-when-they-were-kids-and-bes ides-I-probably-deserve-it-anyway. . . . What about you? How would you have felt if you'd told your brother you missed him and he'd ignored you? What then?"

Mark had finally had enough. "Thank you for your time, Doctor," he said stiffly as he rose from the chair and extended his hand.

Voloshin accepted the proffered hand with a smile, although he remained seated. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mark. Shall I ask my receptionist to make another appointment for you?"

"Fuck, no!" was the first response that came to Mark's mind, but he suppressed it. "I'll see if Addison is interested," he deflected.

Voloshin looked at him sympathetically. "If your Addison is interested, I can give her several referrals to people who specialize in this sort of grief counseling. But, Mark-" He hesitated, looking as if he were debating with himself over what to say next while Mark waited impatiently.

"Mark. You're a good man who is concerned about his girlfriend. I couldn't give you the answers you wanted today, but I think we could start working toward those answers if you came to see me again." At Mark's baleful glare, he continued. "You have a lot to handle right now, and. . . ."

"I'm fine, Doctor," interjected Mark hastily.

Voloshin gave Mark a steady stare that made him remember the bags under his eyes and the grey hairs he'd been forced to pluck for the first time. "You have a lot to handle right now," he repeated. "But behind that rugged and confident exterior of yours, you're self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree. I'd like to help you change that. Not for Addison. But for you, because you deserve happiness, too. Think about it."

Mark's irritation changed to detached amusement at the psychiatrist's over-the-top language. No wonder the guy hadn't had anything useful to say. He was an idiot. "I'm going to pretend there was a compliment somewhere in there," he smirked. "Thank you for your time, and I'll let Addison know she can call you." At that, Mark deliberately sauntered out of the room and down the hallway, letting the world know by his body language that he was back in control.

Dr. Voloshin shook his head and muttered, "Two orphans in the storm."

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 10A:** I fully realize that it would take a fair number of sessions for Mark Sloan (or anyone else) to feel comfortable enough in a counseling relationship to admit to any deeply painful, intimate feelings. Therefore, Mark's open vulnerability in this session (to the degree that it exists) would normally be an utter impossibility in a first session with a psychiatrist. But, fanfic has its limits as outlined by its source material (unless one wants to write AU fanfic). Shonda gave us a two-month period in which Addison begins an affair, gets pregnant, discovers she's pregnant, has an abortion, and then still has some time with Mark between the end of her pregnancy and her trip to Seattle. That didn't leave me much time for Mark's psychiatrist to know him well enough to say that he's "self-loathing and self-destructive to an almost pathological degree" ("Yesterday" [2.18]). Of course, I could have posited that Mark started seeing a psychiatrist sometime after Addison left him, but I think he would be less likely to see a psychiatrist for his own sake than for someone else's-and displacing his feelings onto Addison seemed to be a likely motivation. So, my apologies to any readers who find these two chapters ridiculously over the top.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

Everybody's Got the Right

Chapter 11

Addison settled behind her desk with a takeout container of Hanratty's salad in hand, pleased that she'd completed all the high priority items on the day's to do list. She'd started out at Zicklin with Mrs. Rosenbauer. The woman had originally been suspicious of Addison's motives, but had agreed to allow Addison access to the records when Addison promised that she was looking into her records for the sake of Savvy's peace of mind and not because she expected to start a lawsuit against Dr. Jacobs. The implied lie-that she had had no intention of letting Savvy know even if there was something wrong-had hurt her conscience a little bit, but not enough to convince her to break her promise to Savvy. Fortunately, the records had shown not only that Jacobs had acted appropriately, but that she was receiving state-of-the-art oncology care, so there had been no need to add to the older woman's anxiety with legal maneuverings. Her residual guilt-both for the lie to Mrs. Rosenbauer and for the way she'd originally put Savvy off at such a difficult time had forced her to make the schlep up to Riverdale to deliver the news in person. Mrs. Rosenbauer's relief at the news had been surpassed only by the satisfaction she'd enjoyed at being able to tell her daughter, "I told you so." Savvy had accepted her mother's jibes with outward equanimity, good-naturedly complaining about Addison giving her mother something else to hold over her head. Afterward, in the hallway (Addison had been able to stay for only a few minutes because her day was scheduled to be a long one and the trip from Riverdale to Manhattan would not be quick during rush hour), Savvy had asked Addison whether she was telling the truth. Upon hearing her old friend confirm that the records validated everything Dr. Jacobs had said, her mouth had tightened and she had given a sharp nod before putting her hand on the doorknob. Addison had tried to stop her, hoping for at least a few minutes of confidential chat, but all she had gotten was a promise to let her know about the results of the BRCA tests before Savvy slipped back into her mother's room.

Once back in her office, she'd seen over a dozen patients (including some of her cancellations from the previous couple of days), caught up on some paperwork, and scheduled an overdue department meeting. She'd then taken a late lunch hour to track down one of her colleagues who had recently bought a co-op in the neighborhood and asked for the name of her real-estate agent. Immediately after, she'd called the agent to outline her preferences—a furnished rental close to Mt. Sinai (preferably within a ten block radius), doorman, and elevator. She saw the move as a short-term one—just long enough to get her bearings—so she didn't want to waste the time it would take to go through the approval process by a co-op or condominium board unless there really was nothing else suitable. (A full-service hotel would have made the most sense, given how little she could be sure of her own schedule for the next few months, but such a move would only have underscored her feelings of homelessness. She wanted a place she could call her own.) She made an appointment to see some listings with the agent in three days' time.

Then she called H. L. Winthrop to ask for the name of a good private investigator and a preliminary set of divorce papers.

Quickly making her way through the salad, Addison looked longingly at the journals stacked on the far right corner of her desk. Given the turmoil of the past weeks, it wasn't surprising that she'd fallen behind on her reading, but there wasn't much that could be done about it. She needed to polish her notes for that department meeting she'd scheduled, or else she'd be in real trouble when the Chief asked for her budget proposals for submission to the Board. Maybe she'd bring home a journal or two.

The juxtaposition of thoughts about home and budgets reminded Addison that she hadn't paid her own bills for a while. Mark had been dropping by the brownstone once a week or so to pick up her mail, but ever since the procedure he'd been too busy hovering to make any side trips. Addison thought guiltily that she should be picking up her own mail. After all, she was going to have to go back to the brownstone soon to supervise packing for the move, so there was no reason to ask Mark to pick up the mail. She needed to get past her avoidance, so it was better for all concerned that she start doing things for herself.

Addison knew that her logic was sound, but the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach made her push the salad away. She couldn't face going there alone. Maybe she'd ask Savvy to come with her, assuming she could spend the time away from her mother. Or maybe she'd ask Naomi to spend a week back in NY to help her with the move. It had been too long since they'd had a chance to get together, and it would give her a chance to find out whether Naomi's fears were turning out to be rational. It just didn't seem possible that Sam would leave Naomi because he was having a midlife crisis. The man was preoccupied with the spotlight that came with writing a bestseller, not a flashy new car or a trophy mistress. Sam was one of the good guys. It was just Naomi's insecurities showing through. It had to be. Addison resolved to call that evening to see how soon they could schedule a visit so that Maya could join them, too. She missed her goddaughter.

In the meantime, the mail still had to be picked up. Hating herself for breaking her promise to herself to remain as distant as possible, she picked up the phone.

**divider-divider-divider**

Mark dumped the canvas bagful of mail out on the dining table, happier than he'd been. Well, at least significantly less unhappy. Getting the mail was the first thing Addison had asked of him for over a week and served as proof that all Addison needed was time.

Mark considered leaving the mail in its own haphazard heap and simply going back to the office. With Derek gone, he was being forced to spend more time on paperwork, and today was as good a day as any to do so, since Addison had let him know she had a late meeting. However, finding the mess when they returned would annoy them both, so he put down the bag and started sorting the piles into junk mail (trash can), catalogs (should join the junk mail, but he knew Addison would think differently), bills/official correspondence (Why weren't these going to her business manager?), and personal mail. Anything addressed to Derek that wasn't a bill, he simply shoved back into the bag for his return to the office. He didn't want any reminders in his condo of the man who'd simply vanished without so much as an argument or even a good-bye.

Straightening the piles after the sorting, he noticed that the top item on the bills/official correspondence pile had a return address from the Westside Women's Medical Pavilion P.C. The window in the envelope meant that it was a bill rather than some sort of professional correspondence-and that meant that it was probably a bill for Addison's post-miscarriage care. It made sense that Addison would have taken herself to a clinic instead of Sinai, given her aversion to spreading any information about their personal lives around the job. He held the envelope, pondering what he should do. The envelope was addressed to Addison, but the bill was for care she'd needed while she was pregnant with his child. That thought led him to think about other times he'd been told he'd gotten someone pregnant. "I've paid for enough abortions," he thought. "It's about time I start doing something else." He opened the envelope.

"Therapeutic abortion."

Mark stared at the phrase heading the itemized bill. "Abortion?" Mark mouthed soundlessly and then told himself he was being an idiot. "Spontaneous abortion" was the medical term for a miscarriage; "therapeutic abortion" must be the billing code for a D & C. She needed to have her uterus cleaned out after the baby died. Any other interpretation was unthinkable. Hadn't he just spent four hundred dollars to talk to a shrink about Addison's grieving process? He should stop being an idiot.

Mechanically, Mark took out his checkbook from the credenza, made out the check, put the check in the postage pre-paid envelope with its remittance slip, and walked out to the hallway to the mail slot that would send the check to the maintenance staff for delivery to the post office.

All thoughts of returning to the office gone, Mark walked back into the condo and put the TV on ESPN for some distraction. There had to be a baseball game playing somewhere. (As it turned out, a rugby match between Wales and England was on, but Mark never noticed.) He then poured himself a large scotch and went out on the balcony, bringing the bottle of Laphroaig with him.

It was an uncharacteristically hot afternoon for June. Heat waves made the sidewalks seem to shimmer, and the white concrete floor of the balcony seemed to intensify the sun's rays as it reflected them. Mark, however, didn't notice-not even when the plastic surgeon part of his brain noted that he shouldn't be standing outside for more than a few minutes in this weather without sunscreen. He was too busy arguing with the voices inside his head.

_Addison couldn't have had an abortion-she wanted the baby. Remember how happy she was when he brought home the Yankee jersey and the calendar? _

_Remember how she got quiet and started thinking about Derek halfway through dinner?_

_Addison wouldn't lie. She always tells people exactly what she thinks whether they want to hear it or not._

_Not always. Not with Derek._

_She's never been afraid to tell _me_ to go to hell._

_She wasn't your girlfriend before. Besides, what makes you think she wanted a baby? Didn't she always tell Derek "no" when he talked about the possibility?_

_But she wanted _our_ baby! We were going to be a family._

_Oh, yeah? A family? Some family. Then why is she refusing to get near you unless she thinks you're asleep?_

_She's grieving. Voloshin said so._

_R-i-i-i-i-i-i-ight._

_This is stupid. Addison said she had a miscarriage. Addison wouldn't lie about this._

_You're _sure_ she wouldn't lie? Then why don't you call the clinic and verify it?_

_"I don't have to. Besides, they wouldn't give me her medical history without her authorization._

_"But you're _Dr._ Mark Sloan. You could pretend to be calling from Sinai-say it's a medical emergency. She started hemorrhaging and passed out. They'd give you the information. _

Sure _they would_.

At several points, Mark considered calling the clinic. He _could_ pretend he was Addison's doctor and ask for the details on her case. Maybe they'd tell him what had happened if he claimed it was an emergency-that she was hemorrhaging and unconscious or something. But that would be stupid, because he already knew what had happened, and Addison would be furious with him for invading her privacy. Doubting her was stupid. Therapeutic abortion meant cleaning up after a miscarriage. That's the only thing that made sense.

He wished he'd seen the bills from the real abortions he'd paid for.

Damn.

Mark thought back to the first time he'd ever heard Addison talk about abortion.

**divider-divider-divider**

_It was close to the end of their first year at Columbia med. Derek and Addison had officially been a couple for over two years, and both Addison and Mark had followed Derek to Columbia so that he could be closer to his family. They'd temporarily lost Savvy and Weiss as part of their inner circle to law school in Georgetown, but had become close to Sam Bennett and Naomi Curry. Archie Montgomery, Addison's brother, had also become part of the group that year, but he would soon be graduating and off to his first year of residency as an intern. _

_Mark walked down the hall to Addison's place; the group had arranged to gather there before heading out for dinner at some fusion West Asian restaurant in the Village the girls had been raving about. He still hoped that he and Archie could convince the others to take the rest of the night off from studying, because the stress relief would be worth more than the "lost" study time. However, he doubted that they'd be able to convince them to take anything more than a dinner break. Derek, Sam, and Naomi had been there since early that morning, quizzing each other and (probably) feeding off each other's nervous energy until at least one of them was in full flip out mode._

_"Ow!"_

_Mark nodded, his prediction confirmed. Since that was Derek's voice he'd just heard through the open front door, Addison must be the one who'd snapped. "Has it really come to this?" he asked breezily as he walked through the door. "Violence?" He studied the room's occupants. Sitting on a mostly brown and black futon couch, Naomi and Derek were glaring at each other, while a perplexed Addison sat on the floor, using Derek's leg as a backrest. Sam sat apart in one corner of the room with his nose almost glued to a biochemistry textbook while Archer lounged in another corner, smirking._

_"You'd better be careful, Mark," Archer warned. "The women are on the warpath. If I were you, I'd stay out of the line of fire."_

_What's the argument about this time?" Mark asked as he folded his arms and leaned against the wall next to Archie._

_Archie raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the couch._

_"What is _wrong _with you?" asked Derek in an aggrieved tone, rubbing his left shoulder and glaring at Naomi. "I _agree_ with you."_

_"Yeah, Nae," seconded Addison loyally. She got up from the floor to perch on the arm of couch so she could face Naomi. "He's still saying he thinks abortion is wrong-and you're both wrong about that-but at least he's willing to make an exception in cases of rape or incest or when the mother's safety is in danger. Even you have to accept that he's trying to be fair." _

_Naomi rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "No, I don't. _How _the baby was conceived isn't the issue. The issue is that the baby has a life of its own no matter what its parents have done. You can pretend that the baby is nothing more than part of its mother's body until it's born-and _that's _wrong (Here she looked pointedly at Addison before continuing.), but it's morally consistent. Derek," and here Naomi stopped to glare at him again, "Derek _says_ that the baby is a person, but he's willing to kill it as long as the mother isn't guilty of wanting to have the sex that created the baby."_

_"That's not what I said," protested Derek. "I-."_

_Naomi held up her hand imperiously. "Answer me this. If you were in charge of creating the abortion laws, you would allow a woman to have an abortion only if her life was in danger or she could show proof that she'd been raped. Right?"_

_Derek eyed Naomi warily. "Right."_

_"But if she couldn't present medical proof of the danger or the rape, then you'd make her carry the baby to term. Right?"_

_Derek stared back, his frustration evident. "You're making it sound like I want to punish women for having sex. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about protecting babies, not punishing mothers." He turned around to his girlfriend. "Tell her, Addison. Tell her I believe in sex." He grinned. "More sex, I say." _

_Addison's eyes were narrowed, and that was never a good sign. "You know what? I think Naomi's right. I think you are just being a . . . a prude. A prude with a heart, but a prude." She smacked the top of his head. "Prude!"_

_"Baby-killing prude!" added Naomi as she landed an additional smack, this time on his knee._

_Archer grinned at Mark, who grinned back. As the group's resident players, they were usually the target of the girls' occasional impulse to assume the role of morality police; it was fun watching goody two-shoes Derek wear the bull's-eye for once._

_"Sam!" called Derek frustratedly. "Get your girlfriend to stop hitting me. I've already got my hands full with Addison."_

_Sam wouldn't even look up from his textbook. "I am a man," he said in a monotone. "I do not have a uterus. I cannot get pregnant. I do not belong in this conversation."_

_"Some man," Derek scoffed. "You won't even stand up to your girlfriend."_

_This time Sam responded, looking up with a mixture of irritation and amusement. "Right. Like I should be so inspired by how well you're doing."_

_Three stony glares greeted his attempt at defusing the situation with humor. Sam sighed. "Look, the Supreme Court says I have no say in this. Whether it's my girlfriend, my wife or my daughter, _I have no say._ So why should I get myself in trouble for no reason? Have fun, people." And with a long-suffering shake of his head, Sam stared once again at his textbook._

_"Sam's right, you know," piped in Archer unexpectedly. "A guy doesn't get any say at all. A woman can stop a pregnancy any time she decides she doesn't want it, but a guy is automatically stuck with at least eighteen years' worth of child support once she decides to give birth. That's why I got clipped." Archer held his fingers up to mime a scissor-like motion and then waited for the group to react._

_After a few startled exclamations of dismay, Addison said what they were all thinking. "You what?" she asked incredulously, scrambling to her feet. "How could you? You're only twenty-four years old! How do you know you won't want to become a father later on?" _

_"Dude," exclaimed a dismayed Mark, while the others kept their silence._

_"I don't want to become a father," Archer said simply. When Addison opened her mouth again, looking as if she wanted to fight him on that assertion, he continued. "There are steps I can take if I ever decide to change my mind-but I _won't_." _

_"But-"_

_"But nothing, Addison," he said coldly. "_You_ can carry on the family legacy and make sure that Bizzy's and the Captain's DNA lives forever through their innumerable grandchildren if that's what you want." He raised an eyebrow, as if daring her to announce her own desire to postpone having children indefinitely-a desire he knew she hadn't discussed with Derek. "I've no intention of letting myself be held hostage by some biological accident."_

_Mark's reaction to the news was conflicted. His admiration of Archer's clear-headed practicality warred with some inexplicable reluctance to run a similar risk of _never_ being able to father a child of his own-despite the money he'd already given to several women to avoid just such an outcome. Uncomfortable with the thoughts running around in his own head, Mark distracted himself by watching the others react to Archer's announcement. Addison was clearly upset, but-uncharacteristically-unwilling to speak further. This piqued Mark's curiosity. Derek obviously disapproved-but he would have disapproved of whatever Archer had said. Derek and Archer agreed on only one thing-their mutual contempt. Naomi also looked disapproving (again, no surprise) and Sam looked stunned. If Sam also reacted true to form, he'd probably figure out in a couple of minutes that he also disapproved, but he probably wouldn't say much, if he said anything at all. He usually let Naomi do his yelling for him. _

_Archer chose to address the look of confusion on Mark's face. "C'mon, Mark. Don't you get tired of having to hope like hell she's telling the truth about whether she's "protected"?" he asked while making air quotation marks. "Or worse, having to put on a wet suit?"_

_Before Mark had a chance to formulate an answer, an outraged Naomi jumped into the fray. Unbelievable," she exclaimed, striding across the room to stand in front of Archer. "Are you saying you have unprotected sex? YOU?" She wagged her finger in front of his face. "You've got to be a walking Petri dish for every STD there is. How could you?" Naomi looked around, seeking agreement from the rest of group until she saw Addison's face. She gave an embarrassed shrug. "You know it's true," she added in a small voice._

_Addison took a moment to stare at Naomi, not sure what point she wanted to make, and then turned toward her brother, raising her forefinger high. "We are _not_ going to talk about you having unprotected sex because that is an image I do not want in my brain—although you should certainly know better." She looked at his presumed "partner in crime" and added, "You _both _should know better." _

_Addison's words forced Mark into a hands-up "Don't drag me into this" gesture. He'd normally back Archer up in this sort of argument, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to be on his buddy's side this time._

_"But I will ask you this," Addison persisted, turning back to Archer. "Isn't it just the least bit possible that you're overreacting?" _

_Archer's face darkened at Addison's oblique reference to the previous week's pregnancy scare he'd confided to her but not the others. "That's the way I want it, sis." Archer said decisively. "I don't want to end up like Sam or Derek."_

_Looking at the expressions on the faces of the two couples, Mark leaned over to Archer and stage whispered, "Should I start making tourniquets now, or do you want me to wait until they actually draw blood?"_

_"Leave him alone, everybody. Archer made the right decision," Derek drawled from his spot on the couch, drawing startled glances from everyone. And then came the wryly-delivered punch line. "His kind shouldn't reproduce."_

_Archer smiled and made a graceful bow in Derek's direction, acknowledging that Derek's snark was the closest thing to support he was going to get from this group, given Addison's unexpectedly negative reaction to the news and Mark's inexplicable silence. It was time to change the subject. "Let's go," he announced to the group, tapping his wristwatch. "If we don't get moving, we'll miss our reservation. I'm looking forward to that _shawarma_ you told us about. Right, Mark?"_

_Mark shrugged. Any place the girls recommended was probably good, but he didn't have any particular liking for most Middle Eastern food; it was his fondness for the coffee that had convinced him to go along with their choice earlier. But getting everyone out on the street was probably the best way to defuse what was threatening to become a full-fledged fight. "Sure."_

_"Hold on a minute. You just hold on a minute," Naomi demanded forcefully, staring up at Archer. "What did you mean—you don't want to end up like Sam or Derek? What does that mean?"_

_Archer had the sense to look embarrassed. "I shouldn't have said that. I apologize. Let's go."_

_Addison stood up. "Archie," she said in tone that let her brother know that she wasn't going anywhere until she got an explanation._

_"I agree," added Derek firmly as he stood up, folded his arms, and raised his chin._

_"Yeah," said Sam, standing up and copying Derek's body language._

_Archer eyed the four of them carefully and let out a long breath. "You won't like what I have to say," he warned._

_They continued to stare. _

_Archer raised an eyebrow. They shouldn't ask him questions if they didn't want the answers. "If I tell you what I meant, do you promise that we'll go to dinner immediately after?" He looked at Mark. "Will you help me get them out of here?"_

_Mark nodded easily, curious as to what Archer might come up with._

_The couples looked at each other. With a few nods and shrugs, they managed to come to a consensus. "Yes," said Naomi._

_Archer nodded. "Have you two (nodding his head at Naomi and Addison) heard yourselves talk today?" He turned to Sam. "If Naomi gets pregnant, she's not going to allow you to make any decisions at all. She's automatically going to give birth and you're going to be a father whether you want to be or not."_

_Naomi looked affronted. "What do you mean, I wouldn't let him make any decisions? Of course we would make decisions _together_ about how to care of our baby."_

_Archer stared at her until she addressed his real point._

_"That's—that's not a decision that needs to be made," Naomi spluttered._

_"Thank you for making my point for me. _You_ get to decide whether there's a decision for Sam to make."_

_"You—_you_!" Naomi glared._

_"And Sam agrees. Don't you Sam?" asked Archer playfully, but with a barbed edge to his tone. "You don't have a uterus, so you don't have a right to an opinion." Archer shook his head at Naomi and Addison. "Aren't you two ashamed of the way you've brainwashed him?"_

_Sam moved behind Naomi and gently wrapped himself around her, effectively capturing her before she could physically attack Archer, and kissed her cheek. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said in a tone whose warning was a clear as a bell: Back off. At that, Naomi gave a triumphant nod of her head and twisted around to return Sam's kiss._

_"Sam, I'd love to agree with you, but this time he's right," Derek admitted, sounding surprised at himself. "No, I mean it this time," he added as everyone looked at him. "A baby belongs as much to its father as it does to its mother. A father should be involved in decisions about his baby."_

_Archer chuckled in a way that was calculated to irritate everyone with his condescension. "Haven't you been listening, either? Both you and Sam are screwed, but you're even more screwed than he is. Sam knows that if he gets Naomi pregnant, he has no choice about becoming a father—but at least he knows what to expect. You're dating Addison. If you get her pregnant, it doesn't matter whether you disapprove of abortion. As far as she's concerned, it's a bunch of cells that she can treat any way she wants to. Whether or not you want the 'baby' (here Archer made expressive air quotes), your wishes are," Archer paused for dramatic effect, "_irrelevant_. And you can't even know in advance what she'll decide."_

_The silence that met Archer's pronouncement was eventually broken by Derek speaking pointedly to Addison. "Are you sure your mother gave birth to this guy? I can't understand how you could be related to such an ass."_

_Addison glared threateningly at Archer, who returned the glare in full measure._

_"Addie?" Derek moved in front of Addison, gently grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. "Don't pay any attention to him. He's not worth it," he said firmly. "I know you wouldn't do that." _

_Mark watched Addison eying her boyfriend carefully, looking for any signs of suspicion, and felt torn. After all this time, he knew Addison well enough to know she had no intention of being forced to argue about a hypothetical pregnancy or promise to give up some of her options should the situation arise, no matter what Derek's views were on the matter. On the other hand, he knew Derek meant what he was saying-that he "knew" she wouldn't have an abortion. His best friend was incapable of believing that anyone he cared about could actually disagree with his view of right and wrong. Mark quirked an eyebrow. While he always enjoyed whenever Derek got knocked off of his high horse, he hoped it would never happen over this issue; he didn't think Derek could ever forgive Addison for an abortion. _

_It was time to change the topic of conversation. Mark walked to front door and opened it with a flourish. "Okay, everybody, you guys have been cooped up all day. It's time to get to the restaurant." He waved toward the door. "Ladies?"_

_Sam gave Naomi a squeeze and said, "He's right. It's time to pack up." Slowly, he, Naomi, and Derek started packing up the textbooks scattered all over the living room. _

_"I'll go ahead and make sure they have our table ready," Archer announced to no one in particular and exited._

_"Five will get you ten we'll get a message that something came up," Derek offered in the ensuing silence, but no one took him up on the bet. Given the way the conversation had ended, it was unlikely that Archer would want to continue it-and now that he was no longer in the room, some of them began to wonder silently whether they'd overreacted. _

_Having nothing to pack, Addison and Mark stared awkwardly at each other while the others got ready to go. Mark was sure he knew exactly what Addison had been thinking, but he was the last person who would call her on it. It took three abortions in high school-abortions he hadn't told Derek about-for him to clean up his act. That last one-Sam Riley-was the worst. Unlike the other two, she was dumb enough to talk about keeping it-as if either one of them was ready for parenthood. Fortunately, he and Derek were scheduled to leave for college a few days later, so he let her know he wasn't going to stick around and gave her more than enough money to take care of things. Afterward, he swore he'd try harder to find out whether his prospective targets had more than a couple of brain cells to rub together _before_ he slept with them. (He smirked. That promise hadn't lasted long-but that hadn't mattered since he'd learned to take responsibility for protecting himself.) _

_If he'd known then what he knew now about paternity laws, he might have worried about her decision. The Rileys weren't especially well off; child support payments from a Sloan would have significantly changed her standard of living. He never really worried about the money aspect, but for a while he had wondered what he'd do if she showed up at the dorm still pregnant. By the end of that fall semester, when he hadn't heard from her, he assumed she'd done the smart thing after all and dismissed her from his mind. He literally hadn't thought about her for years except for those occasions on which he was tempted to skip using protection._

_So, no, he wasn't about to judge Addison._

_Looking for a suitable topic for small talk, Mark noticed that Addison had dyed her hair-again. This experiment looked better than most of the others. Once she'd come out of her shell in college, she'd run through almost every shade of blonde the hair salon had to offer-plus a shade of red that had Archer and him calling her Bozo for months, even though she'd gotten rid of it the next day. He generally thought of her as a brunette trying to pass as a blond-a former geek trying to turn herself into a Miss Popularity-but he had to admit that she'd changed. The college freshman who'd vacillated between bouts of painful shyness and strident self-assertion had grown into her looks and become a person Mark occasionally enjoyed hanging out with. She'd turned herself from a mousy brunette into a blond who could be both badass and fun when the mood struck. Blond had been an okay look for her-but this. . . . He'd never thought about it before, but she really had turned into a redhead. "Nice color," he said off-handedly. "You gonna keep it for a while?" _

_"You like it?" she asked, startled. Mark didn't usually compliment a woman on her looks unless he was trying to charm her into a date-or whatever it was he called his random hook-ups._

_"Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "It's you."_

_"Thanks."_

_"Looking good, Red." He grinned._

_Addison raised an eyebrow. "Don't you dare, Curly," she warned and then started turning off the lamps and encouraging everyone to get going._


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Author's Note:** My apologies for not keeping to my posting schedule. I'm spending the long weekend with my grandkids, and my granddaughter spilled a full glass of water on the laptop. It took this long for everything to dry out. (Thank goodness my daughter-in-law had lots of uncooked rice to pack it in!) Anyway, here's the next chapter, and I'll post another one tomorrow.

**Move On**

Epiphany

Chapter 12

Pleased with the day's work despite her exhaustion, Addison walked into the condo. In addition to the morning's accomplishments, she'd put together the list of questions she would need to ask when her attendings presented their funding requests as well as coached a fifth-year resident through an unexpectedly complicated premature delivery without having to pick up a scalpel herself. She'd also gotten a referral to a private investigator from her lawyer and secured an appointment for the following afternoon. With any luck, the P.I. would locate Derek quickly and things would be resolved, one way or the other. In the meantime, she was going to be sure that preliminary divorce papers were prepared before she reached out to him. (Yes, she was going to ask Derek for another chance, but she'd be damned if she wasn't going to show she was prepared to let him go if that's what he wanted. She still had her pride.)

Addison cocked her head as she came through the front door. From where she stood, it seemed like every light in the entire condo had been turned on, including the ones in the coat closet and over the kitchen sink. "Mark?" she called out, but the only sound she heard was silence. Slightly unnerved, she moved toward the far end of the condo, the bedroom, and started turning out the lights.

By the time she'd gotten through the bedroom, hallway, bathroom, and kitchenette, a perplexed Addison was wondering whether she should be worried, and that annoyed her. Fortunately, before she could work herself up over the mystery, she found Mark sitting at the dining table with a bottle of Laphroaig and a half-full tumbler in front of him. "Mark?"

Mark gave Addison an indecipherable glance, slowly tossed back what was left of his drink, and poured another.

Addison studied the scene before her and added up the clues. Mark was deliberately ignoring her without letting her know why. An icy silence from Derek would have meant that he was furious with her but needed a few moments before tossing out the barbed one-liners that were his specialty. Mark, on the other hand, couldn't care less about wit when he was angry; he simply bellowed. If he was really angry, he also threw things. If she had done something to get him angry, the last thing he'd be doing was sitting and sulking-especially if he'd been drinking. And he _had_ been drinking. His flushed countenance, bloodshot eyes, and slow, deliberate movements meant that he'd had more to drink than was good for him. And that meant that Derek was the only person who could handle him at this point without creating a scene.

Irritation at Derek for not being around flashed briefly through her mind, but she put it aside. She needed to take charge of the situation. Drunk Mark's moods could swing wildly; maybe she could make that work in her favor. How did Derek manage this? Get an innocuous conversation started, find out what's wrong, agree with him no matter how ridiculous he sounded, make a few jokes, and then convince him to sleep it off. That was doable, she hoped-although she didn't have the option of telling Mark to sleep it off in the spare bedroom. The condo didn't have one. What if Mark wanted sex? Well, there was always the Intercontinental as a last resort.

Addison proceeded to put her plan into action. "I had a good day today. Henderson finally handled a complicated surgery on her own without having an attending scrub in. I observed, but she did all the cutting and stitching herself," Addison commented lightly as she turned off the pedestal lamps in the corners and the reading lamp at the desk. At Mark's continued silence, she stared uneasily at the back of his head. Had the realtor called the house even though she asked him not to? Planning her next move would be so much easier if she knew whether her soon-to-be-ex lover was angry at her.

Addison put away her coat and briefcase, kicked off her shoes, and undid the tight bun she'd worn all day while she intermittently continued to make small talk about prepping the OB/GYN budget requests and the good/bad news about Mrs. Rosenbauer's condition. By the time she was finished, she was back in the living room, still waiting for a response from Mark to any of her comments. "So, how was your day?" she asked, hoping the open-ended question might prompt Mark to start talking. As she waited for his response, she turned off the lamps on the end tables, leaving the recessed track lighting in the ceiling the only illumination in the room. When she turned to look at Mark again, all she saw was the top of his head while he focused on the Laphroaig label.

Addison briefly considered simply walking away, but discarded the notion. Already worn out from her unusually long day, she didn't relish the idea of waiting tensely in bed for some indeterminate length of time before Mark decided to let her know whether he was angry with her.

The blond surgeon considered her options. She could continue to babble inanely about her day (at least those parts of it that didn't involve private investigators, lawyers, or realtors), but that felt stupid and took more patience than she felt capable of. Well, there was always touching as a way to get his attention.

"Mark, what's going on?" she asked as she stood behind him, trying to work up the nerve to put her hands on his shoulders. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea-but the only other alternatives involved walking either out of the room or out of the condo itself-and experience told her that either action might make Mark explode angrily at her. Drunk Mark did not like to be abandoned. If she could convince him that she was on his side, then at least she had a better chance of directing the explosion away from herself. She took a deep breath and started kneading his neck and shoulders and then stopped, shocked at the rigidity she felt. She'd spent many hours touching that neck and shoulders-massaging them, kissing them, licking and biting them-and she'd never felt the muscles underneath as nothing more than steel bands of resistance. For the next fifteen minutes or so, she worked soundlessly, digging hard with both her hands and her elbows as she searched for some hint of softening, but it was no use. She might just as well have been massaging the high-tension cables on the George Washington Bridge.

"You're-really tense," she concluded unhappily, resting her hands on his shoulders.

Still silent, Mark made a show of idly examining the liquor in his tumbler.

The baffled Addison searched her memory for any mention Mark might have made of any special events that might have gone wrong, but drew a blank. "Did you lose a patient?" she guessed.

Addison's hands tightened, her fingernails lightly cutting into Mark's shirt as she watched him soundlessly continue to sip his drink. The last thing she wanted was for him to be any drunker than he already was. Taking a deep breath, she walked around to face him. "Mark," she began in an oh-so-reasonable tone, "it's obvious that something's bothering you. I'm perfectly willing to help with whatever it is, if I can." Her fingers closed over the top of the tumbler, effectively stopping him from picking it up again. "But I'm not a mind reader. You have to talk to me. _What_ _happened_?"

Mark stared at Addison's hand, looking as if he were debating whether to reclaim his drink. Finally, he stood up and walked over to the mini-bar to claim another tumbler, which he promptly filled while Addison unsuccessfully tried to hide her growing annoyance. She tried to calculate the odds on trying to get the bottle away from him without causing a scene, and realized that they weren't good.

On the other hand, she decided, it was enough that Mark had opted for silence. As long as she didn't have to put up with any rambling tirades, why should she care how drunk he got?

She'd had enough; it was time for a strategic retreat. She rethought her decision to avoid the bedroom and changed her mind. If Mark was still in a foul mood when he came to bed, she could always pretend to be asleep. "It's been a long day," she said heavily, walking over to her abandoned shoes and picking them up, "and I don't have the energy to play twenty questions. Good night, Mark." As she turned toward the bedroom, he spoke.

"I picked up your mail."

"What?" asked Addison, confused at the apparent _non sequitur_. She turned to look at Mark, finding that he was now eying her intently.

"I picked up your mail."

Addison slowly counted to ten. Annoyed at his perversity-not speaking or even looking at her until she'd given up her attempts to draw him out-she really wasn't interested in starting a conversation. On the other hand, since Mark was speaking in his normal tones, he evidently wasn't planning to take his mood out on her. She could relax. "Thanks," she replied evenly. "You can give it to me in the morning. I'll sort it at work."

A shadow passed over Mark's face, but he remained calm. "It's already sorted. Over there," he said as he pointed with his chin to the far end of the dining table, where stacks of envelopes sat neatly, along with a piece of mail that had already been opened. "I took care of one of the bills."

"You didn't have to do that," Addison replied with a twisted grimace. "If anything, I should be offering to split the bills for this place with you."

"No, this bill was my responsibility," Mark said enigmatically. "Take a look and make sure I did it properly."

At that comment, Addison frowned and replayed the conversation in her head. She didn't like the way it sounded. "You opened my mail?"

"Just one. I took care of the bill from Westside."

Feeling as if all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, Addison forced herself to walk casually toward the stacks of envelopes at the end of the table. Slowly picking up the opened invoice laying on top, her shoulders sagged in relief when she saw the words "therapeutic abortion." The clinic had followed standard procedure, describing the abortion as therapeutic. Mark, she realized, must have assumed that she had a post-miscarriage D & C, and was silent not in anger but in sorrow. Guilt reared its ugly head once again, and she unceremoniously wrestled it back into its little black box. She could handle this-apologize for bothering him when he obviously wanted to be alone with his grief and then go to bed. After all, as the person who'd gotten rid of that cell cluster, she was hardly in a position to offer comfort-and this was definitely not the right time to hit him with the truth about what happened.

Still staring at the invoice, Addison pondered what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss" was decidedly inappropriate under the circumstances, but she couldn't come up with anything better without making an even bigger liar of herself than she was already. Still, she was sorry that he'd been hurt so badly by her decision even though she didn't regret the decision itself. Squaring her shoulders, she looked up and said, "Mark, I-."

Addison stopped, realizing from the hardening expression on Mark's face that he had figured out the truth-if not from the invoice itself, then from her reaction to the invoice. Even before the affair, he'd always been able to read her better than Derek ever had. Trapped.

She should have picked up her own damned mail.

Mark suddenly turned and threw his half-full tumbler against the opposite wall, shattering both the tumbler and what was left of Addison's nerves. Some of the shards bounced back at Mark, but he didn't flinch. The rich, peaty smell of the Laphroaig filled the room as the two stood staring at each other.

Suddenly afraid in a way she hadn't been before, Addison steeled herself for what was coming next. While she'd known all along that she and Mark would have to discuss the abortion, she'd never expected to have the discussion while he was drunk as well as angry.

"So," she said matter-of-factly, somehow managing to keep her voice steady, "now you know."

Mark nodded. "Now I know," he repeated slowly. "What I don't know," he growled, "is why." In the ensuing silence, Mark walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed another tumbler, and poured another drink. Then her turned toward Addison and waited.

Why? Addison searched for a way to explain her actions that wouldn't make Mark any angrier than he already was. "I meant to tell you. I tried to tell you-I did-the day I had the procedure done. But then you assumed I'd had a miscarriage and. . . ." Addison threw her hands up in a gesture of futility. "You were so upset already that I didn't want to make it any worse. I thought I'd wait and figure out a way to tell you that would make it easier." She summoned an appropriately contrite expression. "I never intended for you to find out this way. I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."

Mark's eyebrows were, if possible, knit together even more tightly than they had been. "That's not what I asked," he said flatly. "I asked why you had an abortion. Not why you lied about it."

Addison's heart sank. There was no way she could explain that she'd had the procedure because he was the father instead of Derek-not without making things ten times worse than they already were. She scrambled to gather all the reasons she'd used after the fact to support her conviction that she'd done the right thing. "I wasn't ready. _We_ weren't ready. Think about it. You and I hadn't done any talking about the future and then all of a sudden we were talking about marriage. Marriage. Not just co-parenting. _Marriage_."

Addison paused to see the impact of her words on Mark. It was difficult to tell much of anything from his unblinking angry stare, so she continued. "Think about it, Mark. Did you really want to be forced into a marriage just because I was pregnant? It was too much, too fast. Can't you-"

"I get it," interrupted Mark. "You don't want to marry me. I get it." Mark slammed his clenched fist on the top of the mini-bar so heavily that the glasses clinked against each other.

"Mark, don't," Addison said quickly. "Your hand."

"My hand?" Mark's tone made clear his disbelief in Addison's supposed concern. "Why do you care about my hand? You're not marrying me."

Addison silently counted to ten again as she walked toward the mini-bar. "You're a plastic surgeon," she said in the most reasonable tone she could muster. "You might want to use that hand again for, I don't know-surgery?"

Ignoring Addison, Mark picked up the Laphroaig to pour himself another drink, only to find that the tumbler had vanished.

"Mark, you've had enough. Put the scotch down," Addison ordered firmly (tumbler in hand), hoping he was sober enough to listen to reason.

For a few moments, Mark looked as if he was actually considering Addison's suggestion. Then he took a long swig from the almost-empty bottle and threw it against the same wall he'd thrown the tumbler. Addison instinctively raised an arm to protect herself as she backpedaled, even though she was too far away to have been hit by anything. Mark, on the other hand, made no such move to protect himself even though he was pelted with small shards of glass and droplets of scotch.

"Mark!" Addison's heart was hammering in her chest as she stared at the stranger before her. She'd never seen him behave this way, and she wondered if she needed to worry for her own safety as well as his. This had to stop.

"What?" retorted Mark. "I kept my hand safe."

Addison took a deep breath and decided to switch tactics. "Yes, you did. Thank you. Thank you," she said soothingly. "Now, could you come sit with me on the sofa?" She came forward and tried to take his hand and lead him to the sofa, but he snatched it away.

"Don't patronize me, Addison."

Addison quickly raised her hands and backed up to show that she wouldn't try to invade Mark's space again. "I'm not patronizing you, Mark. I just want to talk. Can we talk? Please. Let's sit down on the sofa and talk."

Mark walked up to her and folded his arms. "You sit."

The idea of sitting while an angry Mark towered over her was not an appealing idea, but Addison decided to acquiesce. Anything that got him away from the bar had to be an improvement. She sat at the end of the sofa farthest away from the bar, and Mark stood against the opposite wall. Addison sighed.

"Talk."

Addison looked up at Mark resentfully, although she was careful not to let the feeling show. Even though she realized that she'd handled things badly, that was no excuse, she thought, for Mark to overreact to this extent. Two days after she told him she was pregnant, she told him the embryo had died. He hadn't even had time to get attached to it. "I don't know what you want me to say. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. But I had a decision to make, and I made it. I'm sorry-"

"_You_ had a decision to make?" The look on Mark's face was so sour, Addison wondered if the drinking had finally caught up with him and he was going to be sick.

"Yes, Mark," she said firmly. "My body, my decision."

"Your decision," he echoed, and then laughed a short laugh that was anything but pleasant. "Archie sure had you pegged."

Nonplussed, Addison wondered whether the random comment meant that Mark was losing his focus and whether that was a good or bad thing. She waited for Mark's next comment.

The next thing she knew, Mark was bending over her so that they were literally face-to-face. "I am not talking about your goddamned legal rights, Addison. I'm talking about _our baby_. Remember? The one we celebrated at Tavern on the Green? The baby you told me you _wanted_?"

Addison's eyes widened and then narrowed. Mark's forcible intrusion into her personal space had startled her badly, and she decided to take control of the conversation. She immediately rose with her hands in front of her in the classic stop sign, forcing Mark upright. Once she was standing, she kept her arms extended so that there was at least an arm's length worth of distance between them. "Enough, Mark. Either you can _sit down_ on the sofa and stop acting like a Neanderthal long enough to finish this conversation, or I'm going to leave. You choose." Once she was sure he'd stopped advancing, she walked over to where she'd dropped her shoes, slipped them back on, and waited. After she'd waited for a half-minute or so and Mark showed no sign of relenting, she turned toward the door.

"_I_ choose?" Mark sneered bitterly. He threw himself gracelessly onto the sofa. "Do whatever the hell you want, Addison. That's what you'll do anyway, isn't it?" He slammed his fist on to the end table for emphasis, thereby inadvertently knocking over the lamp. Startled by the crash, he stared at the broken pieces for a few moments before burying his head in his hands.

Addison remained impassive as Mark took time to collect his thoughts, noting with weary relief that his energy level seemed to be dropping. She hoped the evening might be over soon.

Eventually, Mark raised his head. "I'll sit as long as you can give me a reason that makes sense-a reason that makes sense for aborting a baby we both wanted," he said truculently.

Or maybe this really was the never-ending evening from hell.

She squared her shoulders. "I already-"

"Sit," barked Mark. "I sit. You sit. You're not the only one who can give orders around here."

Fair enough. Addison nodded and re-seated herself at the far end of the sofa. "Mark, I already explained my reason to you. This was no way to bring a baby into the world. A baby should be born to parents who are ready for it. You and I-we didn't plan for a baby. We weren't ready for a baby."

Mark shook his head heavily from side to side. "Bullshit! We had nine months to get ready and more than enough money to buy the kid anything it needed. We're both doctors. You're a fucking _**obstetrician**_, for God's sake. What the hell else do we need to get ready for a baby?"

While reality was significantly more complicated than the argument Mark presented, she was forced to admit that it had a simplicity that sounded reasonable. She was going to have to give him more information, and she was going to have to do it in a way that brought down the emotional temperature of the room or things were going to get even uglier very fast. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "Time, Mark. I-_**I**_ needed time," she admitted softly, looking down at her fingers. "Everything was happening so fast. I wasn't ready to have a baby. I thought I was, but I wasn't." She picked up her head and looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry things turned out this way. I'm sorry you're hurting, but I'm not sorry I got the abortion. The abortion," she said softly but firmly, "was the right thing to do."

It was clear from the look on Mark's face that Addison's admission of personal unreadiness hadn't mollified him, but he kept his voice down to a level approximating Addison's. "I don't understand. You were happy. You were making plans with me. We were a family, and you were happy."

Addison fought to keep her frustration under control. If he doesn't stop talking about family, she thought, I'm going to start throwing things myself. She took a good look at the confiscated tumbler still in her hand and wedged it between the cushions behind her. There was no point in leaving herself open to temptation.

She took a deep breath. "No, Mark. That's what I mean by everything happening too fast. We were living in a dream world, pretending things that couldn't be true. We were wrong. We _weren't_ a _family_. We couldn't have been a family. I'm still married to Derek."

In the ensuing silence, Addison wondered if she'd said too much. Mark's expression was inscrutable, although he'd gotten very pale under the alcoholic flush.

Finally unable to stand the silence any longer, Addison asked, "Don't you think we need to settle things with Derek before we make any plans for the future?"

Mark looked at Addison as if he'd never seen her before. "Do whatever you want, Addison." He scrubbed at his face with his hands and then left.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

Putting It Together

Chapter 13

Mark lay quietly on his side of the bed, listening to Addison breathe. Although her eyes were closed, he knew from the sounds of her breathing that she was awake, and that the circles under her eyes matched his own. Neither one of them had gotten more than a handful of hours of sleep for the past three or four nights.

Frankly, Mark didn't remember much of the night that started it all. Of course, he remembered that Addison had aborted the baby and that they had fought about it, but he couldn't remember any of the details except that Derek's name had come up, which didn't make sense. They hadn't heard from Derek for two months; he obviously didn't give a rat's ass about either of them. None of it made any sense, but he wasn't about to bring up the topic again. Talking wouldn't change what had happened. All he wanted at this point was to get his life back to the way it was before the baby showed up-before Addison locked herself into the bathroom each night for a bubble bath where she could cry out of sight while he sat silently in the living room sipping Talisker, his new preferred brand of single malt scotch. Hell, he'd settle for going back to the time before their conversations consisted of nothing but stiff nods of acknowledgment when one of them entered a room. And before the bed developed an imaginary wall that kept them pinned to their respective sides so long as she thought he was awake. Last night he'd (not so) accidentally brushed his shoulder against hers as he got into bed, only to feel her move swiftly toward the opposite edge of the bed.

Mark could feel his own anger growing. He didn't know what she had to be angry about. She'd jerked him around by telling him she wanted a baby and then aborting it without even talking to him. Why did she have the abortion? Or if she really hadn't wanted the baby, why couldn't she have just had her damned abortion and not told him about the baby at all?

Mark forced himself up from the bed and headed for the bathroom. Sleep was obviously a lost cause, so he might as well get in an early morning workout before heading to the office. By the time he was dressed, maybe Addison would admit to being awake and he could make his offer-one that he hoped would help them recapture their old relationship.

Twenty-five minutes later, having dressed in the dark, Mark was ready to leave. "Addison?" he ventured uncertainly.

Addison opened her eyes immediately, confirming Mark's suspicion that she'd only been feigning unconsciousness. "Yes?" she answered clearly, looking up at the ceiling.

Mark took a deep breath. "What time should I pick you up tonight?"

Addison slowly turned to look at Mark, confusion clearly written all over her face, and he cursed to himself. She'd either forgotten or was ignoring their date.

"Your gala. Balanchine. Lincoln Center." At her continuing incomprehension, he growled, "The tickets I showed you at Tavern on the Green."

At that, Addison's eyes widened, and then she blushed. It took a few moments for her to find her voice. "You don't have to do this, you know," she finally said.

Under normal circumstances, Mark would rather watch paint dry than spend an evening dressed in a penguin suit, making small talk with a bunch of other people dressed up in penguin suits and then watching a ballet. And it wasn't as if he could count on lots of incredible thank you sex after the fact. However, Mark resisted the temptation to take advantage of the out Addison was offering. He had a plan. "I already bought the tickets."

"But Mark," protested Addison, looking everywhere _but_ at his face as she raised herself to a sitting position and pulled the sheet up across her chest. "You bought those tickets because . . . I was pregnant. This can't be what you had in mind." She finally looked at him, confusion still painfully etched across her features. "Can it?"

Mark fought the urge to bang his fist against the door. While he hadn't expected the delighted squeals and kisses he'd gotten when he showed her the tickets, he certainly didn't expect to have to argue with her about going. He decided to ignore her question. "What time should I pick you up?"

Fists balled in his pockets, Mark watched silently as Addison as she pondered her answer. "Okay," she answered, in a tone clearly weighted with reluctance. "But I've got a heavy schedule today, so I'll meet you at Lincoln Center in time for the performance."

Mark nodded silently. Her reaction wasn't what he had hoped, but it was a start. "I'll see you then." He nodded curtly and walked out the door.

**divider-divider-divider**

Mark walked down the second floor hallway to the Mt. Sinai NICU. He'd been called by one of the neonatologists-a Dr. Hajjid-on a consult for a preemie with a cleft palate. As he passed the doctor's lounge, he almost collided with Charlene Dono.

"Mark!" She stepped back at his scowl. "I mean, Dr. Sloan!" she corrected herself as she looked around to see whether her informal greeting has been overheard. She lowered her voice. "Are you feeling better today?"

Mark looked at her curiously, wondering why she'd think he'd been ill. Then he remembered, and a flush crept up the back of his neck and across his cheekbones. "I'm fine, thanks. Can you tell me where I can find Dr. Hajjid? I'm supposed to be consulting on the Smullyan baby."

"I was worried when we couldn't wake you up that morning," Charlene rambled on, ignoring Mark's question. "Did your office tell you that I was the one who called in sick for you?"

"No, they didn't," Mark replied shortly. He'd been confused but relieved when he'd finally woken up that morning around eight and called the office to tell them to cancel his surgeries only to find out that it had already been done. "Thanks for taking care of that. Have you seen Dr. Hajjid? He's supposed to be meeting me here." His tone was clipped.

Charlene understood the message in Mark's manner; "Dr. Sloan" wasn't about to discuss personal matters in the hospital no matter how thoroughly she and "Mark" had enjoyed each other's company outside of the hospital. Even so, there was one thing she wanted to settle with him. "Dr. Sloan, I had a good time Wednesday night-a really good time," she said with a smile, "but I'd appreciate you asking me in advance next time before you decide to invite a strange woman to join us."

Mark was annoyed at being confronted over behavior he barely remembered. That night, he'd managed to get only as far as the curb outside the condo before he threw up everything he'd consumed that day (thereby probably saving himself from alcohol poisoning). Not wanting to be alone, he'd gone over to Hanratty's for some coffee but instead found himself drinking a single-malt scotch sent over by Charlene. He wasn't at all sure about what happened the rest of the evening-except that it involved sex-since his next clear memory was of waking up naked and alone in a strange apartment and not knowing the name of the owner.

Mark felt a surge of irritation. If the woman hadn't wanted a threesome, why didn't she speak up then instead of now, when nothing could be done about it? Besides, the NICU was part of Addison's domain. She could walk by at any moment and turn this uncomfortable conversation into something truly ugly. It's not that he was sorry about the drinking or the sex. Given what Addison had done, he felt that he was entitled to do whatever he damned well pleased. However, he knew that Addison wouldn't see his actions in the same way-and when she found out that the nurse he'd slept with worked with her staff, there would be hell to pay. God, or the Universe, or Fate-some damned something or other-must be intent on fucking with him.

He looked up to see that Charlene was still looking at him and realized he hadn't responded to her request. "Don't worry about it," he said abruptly. "It won't happen again."

Charlene's expression grew downright frosty at the obvious brush-off. "Thank you, _Dr._ _Sloan_."

Mark felt just a tiny bit of embarrassment. It really wasn't like him to invite more than one woman at a time to share his bed unless it was obvious that all parties involved would enjoy such a scene-especially when it wasn't even happening at his place. He must have been drunker than he thought. She had a right to be pissed. On the other hand, her assignment in the NICU made her radioactive as far as he was concerned. He brought the conversation back to the present. "Now, where can I find Dr. Hajjid?"

Charlene had had enough. "I haven't seen him, Dr. Sloan," she replied coolly and pointed toward the Nursery. "You can find the Smullyan baby over there in Crib 5. I'll let Dr. Hajjid know you're looking for him when I see him." At that, she folded her arms and stood tall, almost daring the attending to ask her why she wasn't hurrying off to find Dr. Hajjid for him. Mark shook his head and walked into the NICU.

Her old friend, Evan McLoughlin, stopped next to her. "You look like you just ate a whole lemon meringue pie without any sugar in it. What happened? Sloan dump you?"

Charlene gave him a dirty look before exploding. "Ugh! He's even worse than you all warned me about."

Evan shook his head. "You can't tell me you're surprised. Even if he's not tomcattin' as much as he used to, he's still Mark Sloan."

"No," Charlene shook her head. "You all told me he was a fantastic lay who likes to flirt afterward even though he has no intention of doing anything more than that one date or supply closet or on-call room. He just acted like I was an annoyance, when I'm the person who saved his ass last week when he was too drunk to go to work."

"Hmmm," said Evan, his surprise clearly reflected in his tone. "Don't take it personally. Maybe Montgomery-Shepherd is turning him mean." He shrugged. "It's gotta be hard for a player like Sloan to pretend to be monogamous."

Charlene eyed her friend sourly. "Thanks."

"No, seriously," Evan protested at Charlene's continued bad mood. "Look at it this way. The man used to go after every female employee under forty in this hospital. Now, if the gossip chain can be believed, he's cut down to about once a week-and he still chose you."

"You think you're making me feel better?" she challenged, although the reluctant smile tugging at her lips made it clear that Evan's comments were having their intended effect.

"I know I am," shot back Evan. "Tell you what-after work, we'll go to Hanratty's for some _mojitos_ and you can tell me all about what a pig Sloan is." He winked. "After all, I am one of the few nurses who'll never get to experience the Sloan charm for myself."

She rolled her eyes at him and then nodded. "Okay. Deal."

"Good." Evan glanced at the clock. "You'd better get back to work, or the NICU won't let you pick up any more extra shifts."

Charlene nodded. Even was right; sulking over Mark Sloan wasn't worth losing her ability to pick up extra shifts. "Okay. See you later-and tell Peds I said hi." With nods of good-bye, the two nurses hurried off to their separate destinations.

Unseen by either of them, a wide-eyed Addison walked to the door of the doctor's lounge and stared at their retreating backs.

**divider-divider-divider**

Mark rolled his shoulders, trying to get the tension out. "I'll meet you in time for the performance" had turned out to be a maddeningly vague ETA. Normally, Addison loved these things, with the socializing being an even bigger draw than the dancing. Yeah, she bitched about how long it took to get ready and the pressure to look good enough to avoid the gossip that would get back to her mother-but she loved having an excuse to buy new clothes and wear some of the jewelry she usually kept in the safe deposit box. Despite her comment about a heavy schedule, Mark had assumed she'd be there as early as possible to get a head start on showing off what was sure to be a new outfit. He'd gotten there almost an hour early (with a venti bone dry cappuccino in hand as insurance against falling asleep during the performance) and planted himself on a bench near the large fountain in the center of Damrosch Park, so that he could spot Addison no matter which direction she was coming from.

As places to get stuck in New York went, the Lincoln Center plaza wasn't a bad place to get stuck. The space was open and airy with ample shade-important considerations during typically sultry New York summers. Additionally, the travertine- and glass-clad buildings had a beauty of their own, as did the bubbling fountain at his back. But the biggest display of beauty, to Mark Sloan's mind, was the stunningly attractive array of female dancers, actors, students, and tourists who made up a large percentage of the pedestrian traffic there-especially during the summer, when their clothing left little to the imagination.

So, all things considered, he was good. And he had a plan. A good plan. Addison would be in a good mood because she would be having a good time. He would take advantage of her good mood to start acting as if the past week or so hadn't happened. He'd kiss her hello, compliment her, laugh at her jokes-maybe even put an arm around her to help steer her to her seat. She'd start remembering the good times, and the tension between them would dissolve. He had a plan.

He hoped.

"Mark!"

"Amy!" Startled out of his self-congratulatory reverie, it took Mark a few seconds to embrace Derek's youngest sister with an almost enthusiastic hug. While he was grateful for the distraction, he wasn't sure how her presence might complicate the plan.

"So, what are you-?" "Why are you-?" They both stopped speaking and laughed, and then Mark nodded. "Ladies first-although in your case," he added with a smirk, "that's stretching the term."

Amy stuck out her tongue. "I'm here to see a ballet. Why are you here? Have you given up trolling the bars to look for classy one-night stands?"

Mark narrowed his eyes in mock anger. "If you weren't Derek's little sister. . . ."

"You'd already be offering to buy me a drink," she laughed.

"Don't flatter yourself, pipsqueak," he shot back before he grinned. Amy did look hot, and if it weren't for all those hours he and Derek had spent babysitting her, he probably would offer her that drink. Shepherd women were fun in bed, but as far as he was concerned, Amy was-and would forever be-a Shepherd girl.

"Seriously, what brings you to Lincoln Center? I figured you more for an ESPN type."

Mark decided to be as truthful as he could without revealing anything Addison would kill him for later. "Meeting Addison. Ballet."

"Huh?" Amy frowned, but just for a moment. "Oh! Let me guess!" she announced theatrically. "My brother got offered another ground-breaking surgery and bribed you to take his place." She raised an eyebrow as she looked to Mark to confirm her prediction, but then tilted her head and frowned. "Wait a minute. What could Derek have offered _**you**_ to get you into a ballet? Season tickets to the Yankees for both of you?"

Mark did his best to smile mysteriously. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"It doesn't matter if I know, O Enigmatic One," she retorted. "What matters is whether Addison approves of you exchanging her husband's appearance for an entire season's worth of games." Amy looked at him skeptically. "Does Addison even know that you're Derek's replacement tonight?"

"She knows," he said shortly and looked at his watch. "Where the hell is she?" he muttered.

"It's not that late, is it?" Amy asked. She looked at her own watch, grimaced, and then scanned the approaching passers-by. "I guess my date's running late, too."

"Never mind," said Mark, shaking his head. "How's the family? I haven't been around for a while."

"You're telling me? That's all Mom talked about the last time I was over there. You guys haven't come to a Sunday dinner in months." She rolled her eyes and started exaggerating her mother's New York accent. "Not a word! Three such successful doctors-you'd think they'd at least remember how to use a telephone."

Mark winced. While he accepted Amy's characterization of her mother as a stereotypical Jewish mother for the joke it was, he recognized the truth underneath. Of course, Mrs. Shepherd was upset over the communication blackout. He and Addison were going to have to start letting the family know what was going on.

Just not tonight.

Mark realized Amy was still talking. ". . . my last nerve. I know she can be a pain, but could you go over sometime, and drag those two with you? It would make my life much easier."

"You want me to bring Derek to Sunday dinner? Since when did you start thinking it was fun to spend time with Derek?" Mark asked with one eyebrow raised as he considered the irony in Amy's possibly being ready to mend her relationship with Derek only after he'd been driven into hiding. Through most of Amy's childhood, Derek had acted _in loco parentis_, trying to take the place of the father they'd both seen murdered while they were still children. Amy's adolescent downward spiral into drug addiction and attempted suicide had driven what seemed like an irrevocable wedge between them. Several family members had tried to mediate a reconciliation between them, but the most they'd been able to accomplish so far was an uneasy truce where they agreed to act with a level of minimal politeness at family events.

"Oh, God, no!" replied a horrified Amy. "You have to let me know in advance, so I can schedule a shift for that evening."

For just a split second of guilty relief, Mark wondered what Amy's reaction would be if he told her that he and Addison had solved her Derek problem for her, but was interrupted before he could seriously consider giving in to the temptation.

"Amy?"

"Addison!" Amy sprang up to give Addison a big hug and then stepped back. "Addison. Oh, my God, your hair! You're blond again! I love that shade on you." Amy stood back and took in the whole picture. From the top of Addison's sculpted hairdo to her vintage gold Dior gown partnered with three-inch Manolo slingbacks and understated sapphire and gold jewelry, she looked every inch the daughter of old money that she was. "Actually, I love everything. You. Look. Amazing." Amy turned to Mark. "Tell her how amazing she looks."

Mark could appreciate the aesthetic effect of Addison's preparations, but it had little to do with his admiration of the view. With the exception of her hair color, which he still hoped would disappear in favor of the familiar red, Addison always looked great in clothes (and even better without them). Even so, he knew what was expected of him. "Amy's right." He smiled his sexiest smile, hoping to send Addison the message that he really meant the compliment as more than a stock response to Amy's prompt without giving away more information than he had to. "You look . . . amazing."

Addison, however, was obviously not in a mood to receive messages from Mark, coded or otherwise. She maintained her focus on Amy. "You like this?" she asked, turning in a slow circle to show off the entire ensemble. "Just a little retail therapy I came up with this afternoon."

Amy grinned. "The next time I'm in a bad mood, I'll ask you to be my therapist!"

Addison laughed. "It's a date."

As the two women discussed the details of the shopping trip and Addison's latest incarnation as a blond, Mark stood quietly to one side, discomfited. The plan was not going according to plan.

Amy's date, Binh Pham, suddenly showed up, apologizing for being late because of a meeting that had run unexpectedly long. Introductions were hastily made, and the two couples walked quickly to the Koch Theater. Once in the lobby, they separated, promising to look for each other at intermission.

**divider-divider-divider**

As Amy rode the escalator, she watched Mark and Addison walk toward the doors to the orchestra section. She saw Mark move his hand to the small of Addison's back and lean down to say something into her ear, only to see Addison shake him off and plow rapidly through the crowd. Then she saw Mark throw back his shoulders and march through the door after her.

"My brother's in for it tonight," she remarked to her date. "Addison's so mad at Derek that she's taking it out on Mark-and he's the one who showed up so she didn't have to come here alone." Amy grinned. "I bet she charged everything she bought today to him."

"Mark?"

"No, Derek." At his confused expression, Amy realized that the introductions had been too brief for Binh to understand the situation, so she started explaining.

**divider-divider-divider**

At intermission, Amy and her date found Addison and Mark standing in frozen silence, pointedly looking everywhere but at each other. After a few minutes of painfully awkward small talk about the quality of the performances, Amy turned to Binh and said, "I think I'd like a ginger ale."

"Sure," Binh replied, happy for the temporary reprieve until he heard Amy continue with, "And Mark? Why don't you get Addison a drink?"

Addison opened her mouth to refuse when she caught the cue in Amy's eye. "Fine."

Mark looked at Addison. "What should I get you?" Mark asked flatly.

Addison eyed Mark impassively. "Dry martini," she muttered

"If you'll excuse us," Binh murmured, and the two men headed toward the bar. After a few moments of silence, Binh asked, just a tiny bit nervously. "Do you think Amy's asking Addison if she approves of me? You guys are the first family members I've met."

"I doubt it," Mark growled. "Amy's always been the wild child. I don't think she's brought a guy home to meet the family since junior high. No," he continued, "Amy's probably getting an earful from Addison about some terrible thing I'm supposed to have done."

Binh looked at Mark, clearly puzzled.

"What? You've never had a woman angry at you for no good reason?" asked Mark with just a touch of belligerence.

Binh shook his head and held his hands up in surrender. "I just don't get it. She's angry with you? You're the guy who bailed her out from showing up alone," said Binh, nonplussed.

Mark gave Binh an unreadable look. "It doesn't work that way."

"But I thought she was mad at her husband, not you," Binh countered. "Aren't you just subbing for him?"

"Addison's talented enough to be mad at more than one person at a time," Mark assured him. The statement was true enough without going into details better left unexplored.

Binh shrugged. "If it were me, I'd leave and let her stew in her own juices. You're the one doing the favor, here. Let your buddy deal with it. He's the one who stood her up, right?" He took one look at Mark's face and hastily added, "No offense."

They waited in silence until it was their turn at the bar. "One dry martini, one double scotch, single malt," Mark told the bartender. As soon as his drinks were delivered, he bolted the scotch and left, leaving Binh to fend for himself.

**divider-divider-divider**

As soon as the men moved off, Amy giggled and gave Addison a shoulder bump. "So, when are you going to let Mark off the hook?"

Addison's face immediately turned blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please," exclaimed Amy, exasperated that Addison would try such an obvious lie. "A blind man from across the room could tell you two are feuding. And it's not Mark's fault Derek didn't show up."

"My relationship with Mark has nothing to do with Derek," Addison insisted icily.

A look of surprise passed over Amy's face, to be followed immediately by a look of intense curiosity. "So what did Mark do?"

"Nothing." At Amy's look of skepticism, Addison summoned her best dismissive tone. "You're imagining things."

"Imagining things?" Amy's right eyebrow hiked high enough to disappear under her bangs. "Come on, Addison. Mark must have done something that royally pissed you off. You have your Thanksgiving face on."

"What?"

"You had that same look on your face five years ago when we all came over for Thanksgiving-when Derek invited us before he asked you about it."

Addison rolled her eyes. "Grow up, Amy."

Amy looked intently at Addison, looking for a clue as to her sister-in-law's atypical behavior. "Addie, this is me you're talking to. Amy. You've never been afraid to tell me what you and Derek were fighting about. Why the secrecy about a fight with Mark?"

Addison turned her head to stare out of the plate glass window overlooking the plaza and turned back. "Drop it or I'm going back in. I mean it, Amy. Drop it."

"Okay," said Amy, raising her hands in surrender. "It's dropped. Jesus, Addison, it's only a friendly question." She fidgeted with her hands. "Don't you wish they still allowed smoking in here?"

Addison raised her hand toward the window. "The plaza's right there," she said, pointing toward the smokers who were fortifying themselves for Act II in the few minutes left to them.

Amy gave Addison a long stare, knowing that her sister-in-law was fully aware that she'd quit smoking along with her other self-destructive behaviors. It just wasn't like Addison to be this bitchy-at least, not with her. "What the hell is wrong with you, Addison? You're so touchy, anyone who didn't know you would think you two had a lover's quarrel."

Watching Addison's expression harden, Amy finally started putting the clues together-and she didn't like the answer she got. She decided to take a shot in the dark just to prove that she was wrong. "Listen, I'm not going to say anything, but you'd better get your act together before Derek starts wondering what's going on."

Amy watched in horrified silence as Addison's face went absolutely blank.

Finally, Addison raised her hands in front of her. "It's not what you think."

Too stunned to do more than stare, Amy waited for the explanation, but Addison simply turned and started walking back to her seat.

Amy's eyes widened, still not wanting to believe the conclusion her mind had jumped to. "Oh, my God."

**divider-divider-divider**

When Mark came up behind Amy several minutes later, she twitched so violently that Mark put a hand out to steady her. "Oh. Hi, Mark," she said with a wide-eyed stare that belied her attempted casual tone.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked sourly.

"Oh, nothing," she claimed weakly. "Just daydreaming, I guess."

Mark withdrew his hand slowly, not believing her but not in a mood to be distracted by anything other than an immediate emergency. After a pause, he asked, "Where's Addison?"

Amy drew a deep breath. "Uh, I think she went back to her seat."

A muscle in Mark's cheek twitched as he resisted the urge to tell Amy to drink the unwanted martini herself, since she was the reason he'd been sent for it. As he scanned the immediate area unsuccessfully for a counter or ledge to stash the unwanted drink, Binh showed up. Mark waited for him to hand the ginger ale to Amy. "Get rid of this, would you? Thanks." With that, Mark deposited the glass in Binh's open hand and then walked toward the orchestra doors.

Binh stood there uncertainly. The time he'd spent with Mark hadn't done anything to improve his impression of the man, but he was hardly about to start trashing his date's family. He and Amy stood looking at each other warily, and then they suddenly started laughing.

"Do you still want to be invited to the family dinner you've been hinting about?" Amy asked once they stopped laughing.

"I think I'll give it a pass for now," Binh conceded.

The chimes sounded, letting the audience know they all had only a few minutes left to get back to their seats, so they knocked back their drinks and walked to the escalator. Amy looked back at the orchestra section doors as they started going up and frowned. 

"Something wrong?"

"I hope not," Amy muttered. That response was about as truthful as she could manage.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Author"s Note:** Ano, thanks for the review.

**Move On**

Poor Thing

Chapter 14

Addison sat soberly at her desk, staring into space. She'd completed rounds and should have been reviewing her patient's chart for the surgery she had scheduled in ninety minutes, but that somehow seemed less important than brooding. "How did I let this happen?"

It would have been hard to imagine a more difficult day than Friday. As soon as she'd felt confident she could escape from the doctors' lounge unseen, a furious and humiliated Addison all but ran to her office to call Savvy for sympathy and help in plotting revenge. How dare Mark pretend to be in love-in love!-with her while he was hosting orgies right under her nose! She'd never been anything more to him than another score, another vagina he'd gotten into. Another way to trump Derek. Son of a bitch!

Savvy, however, had been surprisingly unsympathetic. She'd let Addison yell for several minutes about Mark's despicable, manwhoring ways and then asked pointedly whether now was finally a good time to stop lying to herself. Before the stunned surgeon could do more than sputter at the unexpected question, Savvy snapped, "Not now, Addison," and hung up. Once she'd recovered her wits, Addison paced the length of her small office as she tried to call Savvy back, but the call went straight to voicemail. Left with no outlet to vent her feelings, Addison bundled them all in a little black box and vowed simply to get through the rest of her day without doing anything more impulsive than shopping. At the gala, Amy's questions had tested her resolve severely, as had Mark's repeated attempts to play the devoted lover, but she'd managed to maintain at least a facade of calm until the end of the event, when she claimed she needed to check on a patient still in labor as an excuse to go straight to the hospital. Once there, she managed to keep herself busy enough through the entire weekend to avoid any time for reflection until now, Monday after morning rounds, with her department fully staffed.

Fully caught up not only with the department's current caseload as well as her administrative paperwork, Addison was forced into inactivity while she waited for an OR to open up. Even if there were no complications in any of the ongoing surgeries, she still had at least an hour before she had to scrub in. The file itself didn't need more than a cursory review just before stepping into the OR. The case was strictly routine-a scheduled C-section for a woman who refused to give birth vaginally after a previous C-section for a breech birth. If she'd been thinking clearly ahead of time, she would have assigned the surgery to one of her sixth-year residents and had one of the seventh-year residents supervise. She'd still have been available in case she was needed, of course-but hopefully would have had to do nothing more than remain available to be paged if she'd evaluated her residents' skills correctly.

"Stop the nonsense," she lectured herself. "You need to start doing your job again. This is a teaching hospital. Teach."

Forced to choose between spending the next hour or so berating herself for her professional shortcomings or finally paying attention to Savvy's challenge, Addison reluctantly opted for the latter. "Stop lying to myself? Ha! I'm not the liar. I'm not the one who was sleeping with a new nurse every week. I'm the one who figured out this—whatever the hell I've been doing with Mark-was just a fling. A senseless, meaningless fling." An image of Mark in his tuxedo, trying to catch her eye on the Lincoln Center Plaza appeared in her mind's eye, and she stood up so abruptly that her desk chair slammed into the wall behind her. "He _loves_ me?! He wants to raise a _child_ with me?! _HA_!" Her eyes narrowed resentfully. "I'm not the liar. I'm the person who figured out the truth and decided not to bring a child into this . . . this. . . ."

Her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of the intercom. Addison took a couple of deep cleansing breaths before picking up the receiver. "Yes, Carrie?"

"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd, is everything alright?"

Addison was nonplussed. Had her twenty-three year old assistant suddenly become clairvoyant? "Of course. Why do you ask?" she said as nonchalantly as she could manage.

"Um, I thought I heard a crash."

Oh.

"Everything's fine." Addison wondered what she could possibly say as an explanation, and then let it go. New subject. "Page Giraldi and tell him to start prepping Ms. Penley."

"Yes, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd."

Addison put down the receiver and massaged her forehead with both hands. The tension headache she'd thought she'd banished earlier had come roaring back, and anything strong enough to take the edge off the pain would render her unfit for surgery. With a sigh, she turned to inspect the wall behind her and noted, to her relief, that there was no damage to it or the chair. The last thing she needed was to start throwing Markian temper tantrums

The sound of crashing glass and the smell of spilled scotch momentarily filled her senses and left her struggling to maintain her composure. She. would. not. cry. Or throw things. She'd already humiliated herself enough by agreeing to the affair, losing both her husband and her reputation for the sake of an idiotic gamble. Which she'd also lost. Savvy was right. What could she have been thinking—that Derek would fight for her? He didn't care enough about her to keep a dinner date, let alone his marriage vows.

Addison smiled bitterly at the irony. Here she'd been worried about turning into the Captain, and it turned out she'd been following Bizzy's example after all. Her mother, however, at least had a husband to show for her efforts. She hadn't been able to manage even that. So, if Bizzy was pathetic for putting up with the Captain's cheating for all those years, what did that make Addison?

A mess. A pathetic, lying mess.

Addison groaned in disgust. While she hadn't been lying to herself, she had been lying to everyone else. No wonder Savvy called her on it. She had been lying to Savvy since their lunch at Serendipity by not admitting then she'd decided to end the affair in anticipation of Mark's inevitable infidelities. She'd been lying to her in-laws about Derek constantly being in surgery. She'd been lying at work, as well, with her declarations of ignorance as to the cause of Derek's disappearance. Not to mention her meltdown in front of Amy when all the poor girl had done was to point out what was perfectly obvious. And then there was that S.O.B. While he hadn't been honest with her, she hadn't been honest with him, either.

"I used to kick ass and take names," she fumed. "Now, "I spend all my time lying because I'm worried about what people think of me!" She slammed her hand onto the desk. "I will not be this person anymore."

She reached for the real estate broker's business card and placed it on top of her phone. "As soon as I get out of the OR, I'm going to take that co-op on West End Drive, go h- . . . go to Mark's, and start packing my things. If he argues, I'll let him know I know about Charlene and the others." It was time to start telling the truth. She. was. finished.

The intercom buzzed again. "Dr. Richard Webber is on line one," said Carrie.

"Richard Webber? From Seattle Grace? Are you sure?" asked a startled Addison. She hadn't spoken to her old boss for several months and couldn't imagine why he'd be calling now. She hoped he wasn't looking for Derek. That would be awkward. Addison grimaced at the thought of adding yet another name to the list of people she was forced to lie to. This name hurt more than most of the others. Richard was more than her old boss; he had become both a mentor and a friend, and he was someone Addison wanted to be proud of her.

Richard and his wife, Adele, had taken Addison and Derek under their wings many years ago back in New York, while the younger couple was still in residency. Addison's mouth twisted as she remembered a conversation she and Adele had had on the subject of marriage.

**divider-divider-divider**

_As Associate Chief of Surgery, Richard reserved his Sunday evenings for inviting off-duty sixth- and seventh-year residents to his home for some informal socializing and mentoring over dinner with him and Adele. When she and Derek received their first invitation, it was for one of the few days off they'd have together for the whole year. They had discussed declining the invitation in favor of some private time for themselves, but finally decided it made more sense not to antagonize their boss. _

_No career offers were discussed that evening, but Derek and Addison wound up being glad they decided to go. Derek had always had a good relationship with Richard. Addison hadn't, due to an incident early in her residency when Richard decided she needed a lesson in doctor/patient detachment and found an incredibly painful way to deliver that lesson-but in time she had come to understand Richard's reasoning and been forced to admit the effectiveness of the lesson. She had mostly forgiven him. That evening produced an alchemical change in their relationship; the relaxed setting allowing them to open up to a degree unimaginable within hospital walls, and the Shepherds found themselves invited to return on several occasions as friends rather than subordinates._

_"Mmm, I think that cassoulet is my favorite of all the things you've made for us," said Addison, as she awkwardly stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher._

_"You say that every time no matter what I make," responded Adele dryly, keeping a careful eye on the goblets Addison was balancing on top of the dirty plates. Despite her superior skills as a surgeon, Addison was a novice in the kitchen, and Adele wasn't about to relax until her good china and crystal had been safely placed in the dishwasher. Once Addison had safely finished her self-appointed task, Adele returned the conversation to their earlier topic, her impression of most of the hospital's residents. "Usually, when Richard invites the residents for dinner, it takes them forever to get over being in '_the Chief's home_.' Some of them leave almost as nervous as when they came in-but not you and Derek. Not even the first time you came over. I can't remember ever seeing two young people looking more like they have it all together than you two." She reached into her china closet for the dessert plates and the coffee service. "Why don't you take out the blueberry cobbler and the ice cream while I make the coffee? Do you prefer American coffee or espresso?"_

_"Whatever's easiest," said Addison automatically. She was still working such punishing hours that most non-medical decisions got made on the basis of "whatever's easiest." As for Adele's compliment-given their chronic state of exhaustion and the ridiculously small bits of time they got to spend together-the thought that she and Derek looked like they had it all together was flattering, but so far removed from reality that it was also funny. "I hope you'll repeat that line about Derek and me having it all together when we go back to the living room," she remarked flippantly. "Derek could use a good laugh."_

_Adele lifted one eyebrow, clearly curious at Addison's non sequitur. "Really? Why?"_

_Oops! Addison stopped for a moment to consider her reply. They'd been having a good time together, but this was her boss' wife. Spilling any complaints or worries about the job on either her own or Derek's behalf probably wasn't the smartest career move. But she had to say something. "Well. . . ."_

_Adele laughed, realizing the dilemma she'd unwittingly posed for Addison. "Let me guess. The hospital says you have to work at least one hundred hours a week, but you both average closer to one hundred ten, maybe even one hundred twenty hours because that's what most ambitious residents do. The fact that you work in different departments means there's no way for you to coordinate your schedules, and even if there were, you're both so tired all the time that even when your schedules do match up, all you're doing is sleeping with each other. And I don't mean in a fun way," she added with a twinkle in her eye. "Am I close?"_

_Addison nodded, relieved to have avoided the potential land mine. _

_Adele patted Addison comfortingly on her shoulder. "That's just the job for now. You'll finish residency and it will change. You'll see. You're both young and healthy, you're going to be excellent doctors, _and_ you're in love with each other. I can see it just by looking at the two of you. You have a wonderful life ahead of you. Enjoy it."_

_"Thanks," Addison sighed with mixture of irritation and resignation. Hearing Adele's version of their lives together, she knew she'd sound extremely petty to complain about tiredness and loneliness, especially since the end of this year's residency meant that she'd start working simultaneously on a second board certification in Maternal and Fetal medicine and a fellowship in medical genetics. She had no one to blame but herself for the punishing schedule she'd taken on. "Sometimes it's easy to forget there's a light at the end of the tunnel."_

_"You'll get there. I don't know any residents Richard talks about more proudly than you and Derek."_

_Addison blushed. Richard might be right to feel proud of the role he'd played in her training, but that role made the subject an uncomfortable one, just the same. She shook her head and reached on top of the refrigerator. "This cobbler looks delicious, Adele. Did you make it yourself?"_

_"Uh-huh," said Adele absently, and then continued her thought. "I don't know how you manage, both of you in residency at the same time." She shook her head as she took out a silver tray for the coffee service and dessert plates. "It was hard enough for us when I worked as a nurse while Richard finished medical school and got through _his _residency. I used to think that if it weren't for my cooking and laundry skills, I wouldn't have seen him at all." She laughed. "One day, when I was feeling oh, so sorry for myself, I got together with a couple of the other wives, we opened a bottle of wine, and wrote, '_The Residency Widows' Blues'_-all fourteen verses of it." Adele laughed again. "If Donna hadn't had to get back for the babysitter, Lord only knows how many verses we would have written."_

_"Fourteen verses?" asked a bemused Addison. "Any chance you'll sing it for us tonight?" _

_"Fourteen verses," Adele confirmed as she handed Addison the ice cream scoop and four dessert bowls. "And no, I won't be performing tonight," she added with a grin. "The only time I sing that song now is when I want to remind Richard to spend a little more time at home."_

_Addison's expression turned quizzical as she considered, really considered, the idea that Richard had a home life. She'd occasionally complained about his ubiquity, but never really thought about the fact that the Associate Chief of Surgery seemed to spend almost as much time at the hospital as she did. Adele probably saw only about as much of Richard as she did of Derek. Less, in fact, since she could still manage to meet Derek in the occasional on-call room to share a few stolen minutes of intimacy. Addison marveled at Adele's ability to talk lightly about this; her soul shivered at the prospect of enduring that kind of abandonment. "You still are a 'widow,' aren't you?" she blurted tactlessly, and then blushed when she realized what she'd said. "I'm sorry. I-Richard is. . . ." Addison wondered briefly if there was a graceful way out of this new faux pas and decided there wasn't. She might as well ask her question. "I mean-how do you stand it?"_

_"You think I have a choice? What do you think marriage is?" Adele marched over to the freezer, took out the French vanilla and butter pecan ice cream cartons, and put them in Addison's hands. "Scoop!" she ordered. Then she folded her lips and gave Addison an appraising glance, as if deciding how much of the truth she felt comfortable revealing. Addison blushed at the scrutiny and focused all of her attention on creating perfectly rounded scoops of ice cream. "It's better than it was," Adele said finally. "It's most definitely better than it was." Something about her tone told Addison not to pry._

_The two women worked in silence while the steam hissed through the espresso machine. Finally, Adele shook her head. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to snap. We're okay, Richard and me. Oh, it was tough at first, with both of us working like crazy, with me finishing my M.S.N. and then having to pick up extra shifts so we could pay back our student loans. We saw each other about as little as you two do, but we worked it out." _

_Addison nodded silently. Something still seemed "off" in Adele's manner, but given the woman's reaction to her earlier question, she wasn't about to ask another._

_Adele continued, accepting the nod for the sympathetic gesture it was. "So, here I am." She spread her hands wide before reaching for the coffee pot. "I don't need to work anymore, but I do volunteer regularly as a school nurse to keep up my skills." _

_Addison looked up from the ice cream scoops she was arranging in an insulated serving bowl. "And that's enough?" she asked doubtfully._

_Adele gave Addison a look that let her know she'd finally reached the limit of her willingness to explain, but she kept her tone even. "You don't need to worry about me, Addison. My life is filled with plenty of love. Between my volunteer work and helping out with my nieces and nephews, I am very busy." Addison nodded. She already knew that Adele's sister relied on her for after-school childcare._

_Adele looked at Addison, debating whether to say anything more. She was pretty sure she knew some of the difficulties Addison and Derek would be facing in the next few years, but couldn't make up her mind whether warning Addison about them would accomplish anything good. Forewarned is forearmed, she sighed to herself, and dug in._

_"You know, you may get to hear the '_Residency Widows' Blues'_ yet. With you and Mark Sloan both pursuing your second Board certifications next year, Derek's going to have an awful lot of time on his hands. Maybe I'll ask him to bring over his guitar and we'll add a few verses."_

_Startled, Addison just stared at Adele. Aside from a mild case of envy of Derek's impending easier work schedule, she hadn't given any thought to the impact her second board certification would have on her marriage. Derek certainly hadn't seemed unhappy about it; he liked teasing her and Mark about the life of leisure he intended to lead in private practice while they continued to slave away in the indentured servitude called residency. Would Derek feel neglected? Should she be worried about what he might do with so much free time on his hands?_

_Adele broke into Addison's reverie. "So why isn't Derek pursuing a second specialty?" she asked as she turned to fold napkins and put them on the tray. "Richard and I were shocked when the application deadline passed and Derek's name wasn't on any of them."_

_Addison blinked as she brought herself back into the conversation. "Derek's happy to throw himself into full-time surgery. He loves cutting and hates research." Addison's tone became defensive. "I just don't know enough as an OB-GYN to treat my patients. I need Fetal and Maternal because I'm already treating mothers and babies." She paused. "And genetics? Genetics just makes sense when you're talking about mothers and babies."_

_Adele waited to respond, but held back. Addison was taking an extraordinary amount of time to put the ice cream containers back where they belonged, and she disliked talking to people's backs. She resisted the urge to ask if Addison had found anything good to read in there._

_Adele sighed at the tense expression on Addison's face and made sure that her speaking voice was as soft as it could be. "Honey, I'm not criticizing you. I think it's wonderful that you have all these opportunities, including the opportunity to make a life with your husband." Addison still wasn't meeting Adele's eyes; she'd busied herself rearranging the coffee service to make room for the ice cream bowl (which really didn't fit and which Adele had intended to ask Addison to carry in on a separate tray with the cobbler). She took out the other tray and placed her hands on Addison's as they both transferred the ice cream bowl. Then she waited for Addison to meet her gaze. "All I'm saying is that I know what it's like to love someone who's hardly ever around. And when you love someone but that someone can't be with you, it helps to know that your someone is making time for you when she can."_

_Addison nodded stiffly, provoking another sigh from Adele. She should have kept her mouth shut after all. She then resumed her normal speaking voice as she walked over to the espresso machine and picked up the pot. "Let's get moving before the coffee turns into ice and the ice cream turns into soup."_

**divider-divider-divider**

"Too bad she wasn't giving that lecture to Derek," thought Addison as she picked up the phone. "Hello, Richard? It's so good to hear your voice. How are you?" She nodded at the answer. "And Adele?"

Several minutes of small talk passed with no mention of Derek's name, much to Addison's relief. Then Richard got to the purpose of his call; he had a rare case of twin-twin transfusion syndrome on his hands with no surgeon at his hospital able to handle the case. He'd seen her article on treating TTTS and so wanted her to fly out to Seattle. Addison beamed; aside from any pleasure she derived from the professional recognition she'd just received from her mentor, the opportunity to take a break from the circus her life had become couldn't have come at a better time. If there hadn't been three thousand miles separating them, she would have given Richard a kiss.

"How soon do you need me to fly out?" she asked. "Is it an emergency?"

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone line. "No," Richard answered slowly. "The babies have a little time before they become critical. My acting Head of OB says you could probably wait as long as a week if you really need to, but sooner would be better than later. I'll have her send you the scans so you can make an assessment for yourself."

Addison became suspicious at Richard's odd tone. "Richard, is there something about this case you're not telling me?" She really wanted to make the trip, but not if the twins weren't stable enough to survive the surgery.

"I've told you what I know about the case," Richard said hastily. "Our OB staff thinks the twins can survive the surgery, but no one's willing to try it. They haven't seen it done and don't want to risk it." He let out a deep breath. "This isn't the Bartlett baby."

Addison nodded, relieved that Richard had addressed the accusation she couldn't make. Still, something still didn't feel quite right about this. "So, what aren't you telling me?"

"Addison? . . .Addie . . . Addison." As Richard floundered through various intonations, seeking an appropriate tone for the forthcoming revelation, Addison glanced at her watch. She was going to have to get off the phone soon or risk missing the notification of an open OR. Still, she wasn't going to let Richard go without an answer to her question.

Richard's hesitant voice finally came back on the line. "When you get here, you might run into Derek. He's our new Chief of Neurosurgery. You also might run into his girlfriend, an intern named Meredith Grey."

Now it was Addison's turn to fall silent. She had so many questions that she didn't know where to begin or even if she should begin. Or could begin.

"Addison?"

"Yes, Richard," she gasped and pulled her shattered mental faculties about her. "I, uh . . . I'm waiting for an OR. I'm due in surgery," she added helpfully, and then winced. Why else would she be waiting for an OR? "I'll call you later for the details." She listened for a few more moments. "No, Patricia doesn't have to book the flight. You can reimburse me later. Bye. Gotta go. Please give my love to Adele. Maybe we can get together while I'm in Seattle. Gotta go. Bye."

Addison tried to focus on the chart in front of her for the few minutes she had left before she had to start scrubbing in, but her thoughts were whirling too badly for her to focus the way she needed to. She decided to make the surgery a surprise present for Giraldi. He was ready to handle it. And in the unlikely event something did happen and she needed to step in, she'd just have to hope that trained muscle memory would remove the possibility that her shaking hands would force her to call in another surgeon.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 14A:** The Shondaverse had been confusing about the course of Richard Webber's career. In the Season Two finale, "Losing My Religion," [2.27], Richard explicitly claims to have spent his internship, residency, and entire post-fellowship career at Seattle Grace Hospital. On the other hand, it's made quite clear in several other episodes that he mentored both Derek and Addison _before_ they _first_ arrived at SGH in Season One. A deleted scene from the extended pilot refers to Derek as Richard's former intern ("A Hard Day's Night" [1.1]), and Derek refers to Richard as a mentor when he tells Meredith he's nervous about operating on the tumor pressing on Richard's optic nerve ("Who's Zoomin' Who?" [1.9]) in the "special super-secret silent sunset surgery." And then there's Richard's forcing Addison to attempt a "rescue" of a dying baby during her internship, as mentioned above. ("Owner of a Lonely Heart" [2.11]) For my own story purposes, I decided that the mentoring took place during Derek's, Addison's, and Mark's residencies in New York. Having done their residencies in New York would have made it much quicker and easier for Derek and Mark to have established themselves in their NY private practices because the local doctors would already know their work and be willing to refer to patients to them. They couldn't have started out as world-class surgeons; they had to build their reputations just like everyone else. Working in one of the media capitals of the world would have made this easier.

**Author's Note Chapter 14B:** Given that several Shondaverse storylines have mentioned the current national mandatory maximum 80-hour workweek, some readers may wonder at the 100-120 hour workweek I've imposed on young Derek and Addison. The 80 hour work week became mandatory in New York State in 1989 with the passage of the Libby Zion law (although standardizing compliance with the law took some time, as hospitals were loath to abandon their former practices for fiscal reasons as well as the widespread belief among doctors that a doctor's training is compromised if he/she can't follow individual patient cases for an extended period of time). Depending on how one calculates the ages of the characters, it is entirely possible to assume that they would have done at least part of their residencies during that period.

I won't argue for a specific age for any one character, although I will point out that given the exalted professional standing each of them is supposed to have achieved in their respective fields before arriving at SGH, using the then-current ages of Kate Walsh, Eric Dane, and Patrick Dempsey when they first joined the show turns them all into the next best thing to Doogie Howser. (i.e., Both Mark and Addison are double board-certified, which takes _**additional**_ time in residency to complete, not to mention Addison's separate fellowship in genetics. And then there's that national reputation all three of them had time to establish before coming to Seattle.) I prefer to think of the characters as having incredibly good genes and healthy lifestyles that give them all strikingly youthful physical appearances.

YMMV :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

Something's Coming

Chapter 15

Enough. Mark had had enough of tolerating Addison's behavior. Three nights ago, she refused his attempts at reconciliation by ignoring him at that fucking gala and then spent the weekend at work, just like Derek used to. Who the hell did she think she was, acting like the injured party? He wasn't the one who'd thrown away their family and pretended it was all an accident of Nature. Nothing about last night-fuck, nothing about the past few _weeks_ made any sense. He wanted-no, he was ready to _demand_ an explanation.

Despite the endorphins from the early morning run he'd treated himself to in an effort to offset the rotten night's sleep he'd gotten, Mark's foul mood had him making the staff so miserable with his snarled comments and barked commands that his office manager and nurse threatened to quit. His apology kept them from quitting-barely. After his apology, they informed him that they were tired of being used as his verbal punching bags, and that he'd better learn how to treat them with respect if he wanted to keep their services much longer. Some part of Mark's mind could begrudgingly accept that the demand was fair, so he held his tongue for the rest of the morning and then headed to Sinai for a surgery-a hush-hush facelift for a high profile actor who wound up canceling at the last minute after she fought with her director. (The director didn't want her looking too young to play the mother of the movie's star and threatened her with losing the part if she went ahead with the surgery.) Freed of any worries about alienating his office staff, Mark gave the hapless intern who'd been forced to give him the bad news ten minutes of detailed commentary on the ineptitude of a hospital staff who couldn't hang on to a patient who'd already signed all the consent forms needed for her surgery. Afterward, feeling slightly less tense, he thought about returning to the office. However, given the less than reliable hold he was maintaining on his temper, Mark decided not to run the risk of aggravating his staff any further before they'd all had a chance to settle down.

He headed to Addison's office instead, determined to do . . . something. Upon finding out she was in surgery, he told the receptionist that he'd wait for Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd in her office-an announcement that was greeted with a slight frown but no outright objection. Mark considered letting the woman know how much he didn't appreciate her attitude, but decided he'd done enough complaining for the moment.

After fifteen minutes or so of restlessly flipping through the journals on Addison's desk, he thought to ask how long it would be before she was expected to be out of surgery. Upon hearing that she'd just started a four-hour procedure, he reconsidered his strategy. After a few moments of thought, he made a quick phone call and then scribbled a short note. He handed the note to receptionist with the words, "Please make sure that Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd gets that as soon as she gets out of surgery."

_Addison-_

_I made reservations at Le Bernadin for 8:00._

Mark felt satisfied with his decision. Despite Addison's decision to avoid his company last night, he was confident she wouldn't be able to resist an invitation to one of her favorite restaurants when the only other alternatives were either ignoring him at home or spending another night in an on-call room.

As Mark stood on the corner of 97th and 5th, wondering what to do with his unexpected afternoon off, he felt his phone vibrating with a text message. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the sender's name-it was from Addison. Or at least, it was from her phone. Unless the surgery had ended abruptly, she must have asked the scrub nurse to answer his message.

_Can't. Still working on budget._

Mark's lips tightened involuntarily, but he remained outwardly cool. He smoothly put his phone back in his pants pocket and headed west, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. Addison wanted to keep playing games? Fine. He'd outwait her.

In the meantime, he still needed to decide what he was going to do with the rest of his day—and night, by the sound of it. He'd already gotten in an early morning workout at the gym and didn't feel like going back. It was too early to ask around for a pick-up game of basketball or handball back at the hospital, and the teenagers who hung out at the public parks weren't likely to welcome him into their midst. There was always Hanratty's, but it was too early in the day to start drinking. Mark stopped at a _bodega_ to pick up the _Times_ for the movie listings, but before he had turned so much as the front page, inspiration struck. Leaving the newspaper on the counter, he walked briskly toward the Shepherd brownstone—not to run yet another errand for Addison, but to reclaim his bike, his Ducati Multistrada 1200. He hadn't been on the bike since Addison had moved in. Right then, cruising up the Henry Hudson Parkway and then as far north as he cared to go sounded perfect. In less than an hour, Mark had changed into his riding gear, checked out the bike, gassed up, and headed out.

Mark no longer indulged in the reckless stunts of his youth. While neither Derek's motorcycle accident nor Mrs. Shepherd's half-command/half-plea to give up his bike had had any significant impact on his willingness to ride, his first ER rotation with its appallingly high rate of crippling and fatal injuries for motorcycle riders and the staff's casual references to "donorcycles" served as his needed wake-up call. Ever since then, Mark never went near his bike unless he was dressed in leather or Kevlar racing outfits with extra padding or armor in all the right spots. He paid special attention to his gloves, knowing that his livelihood depended on their ability to keep his hands safe. And, of course, his helmets reflected the latest science on the subject; aside from any concerns for protecting his brain, there wasn't another plastic surgeon out there he'd trust to make repairs on his face.

He hadn't liked the gear at first. The best part of motorcycle riding, aside from the way a sweet bike functioned as a babe magnet, was the way it let you experience the world. Driving a car would always get him where he wanted to go, but riding a bike provided a feast for his senses-the thrum of the engine between his legs and the sights and sounds and scents of the open road there to enjoy without a glass and metal tank getting in the way. Getting properly dressed in all his new gear had felt like putting on a full-body condom-but because, as with regular condoms, the alternatives were either unacceptable risks or having no fun at all, he resigned himself to the inevitable. And as before, the inevitable turned out to be pretty damned good.

At first, Mark's focus was all on maneuvering around city traffic and the idiocy of other motorists, but once he hit the highway, he was able to relax and enjoy himself. Having no particular destination in mind, he was content to stick to the highways, at least at first. He craved speed more than anything else-speed and a chance to set his mind on cruise control for a while. He couldn't control Addison, or . . . or any other part of his life these days, it seemed, but he could control this. He could enjoy this. So, the Hudson quickly turned into the Saw Mill and then Route 35 as Mark took advantage of the bike's ability to bypass any traffic slowdowns. He felt both more relaxed and more exhilarated than he had in long time, fully engaged with all his senses and any temptation toward introspection left far behind. His sole thought was a resolve to make the bike a regular part of his routine again.

Mark had been riding for well over an hour when his rumbling stomach reminded him that he'd left the city so quickly that he'd forgotten about lunchtime. He considered his options. Normally, on a trip like this he'd look for the nearest busy truck stop; truckers always knew the best restaurants. On the other hand, he'd already passed several signs pointing out the location of Bear Mountain State Park. He hadn't been there in years-not since the Shepherds had stopped staging the annual reunion picnics for the extended family-but he remembered the place fondly for the number of girls he'd picked up there over the years. Granted, some of them had been Derek's cousins-but not all.

Approximately twenty minutes later, Mark had pulled into the parking lot closest to the picnic area and pulled off his helmet and gloves, savoring the feel of a fresh breeze on his sweaty head. He wished he'd brought a change of clothes-the weather was too hot for comfort in his full gear unless he was actually on the bike, but then grinned. The aerodynamic fit of the black leather racing gear offered its own advantages, especially if he was going to talk some woman into sharing her picnic with him.

He loosened the top of his jacket flap and looked around. There were no females in the immediate vicinity, just some guy a couple of cars down-military, if those camouflage pants and haircut were any indication. The guy had a toddler in a pink jumper draped on his shoulder and was hauling a bag of briquettes out of his trunk, but his eyes were glued to the bike. He nodded. "Sweet wheels."

"Thanks." Mark thought he might as well make conversation, since there were no women around. "You ride?"

The guy shook his head slowly. "Not since I got back. My wife would have a fit."

Mark frowned. Something didn't quite make sense. "'Got back,'" he repeated. "From Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," the guy said. Then he put down the briquettes, walked over, and stuck out his hand. "John Velez."

"Mark Sloan." Mark returned the handshake as he tried to make sense what he'd just heard. "You just came back from a _war zone_, and your wife is afraid you'll get hurt riding a motorcycle in New York?"

John shook his head again.

"And you let that stop you?" Mark asked incredulously. The man obviously wasn't a wuss if he'd survived a tour of duty in Afghanistan, but shit! He lets a woman tell him how he can and can't enjoy himself? Mark felt himself losing a little respect for guy.

John shrugged. "She worries enough about me when I'm over there," he said lightly, then his tone turned firmer and he grinned. "Once I get back from my next deployment, we're going to talk about it again."

Mark felt ashamed of his earlier thoughts and wanted to make amends. "You want to take it out for a spin?" he offered awkwardly. "I'll hold your kid."

For just a moment, Mark could see the soldier wrestling with temptation. "You know you want to," Mark persisted. "And when you get your own bike, you can rig up a second seat and take the kid with you. Teach her to appreciate the need for speed."

The grin on Mark's face found a match on John's. He gave a small laugh and turned to his daughter. "What do think about that, Annabelle? Should we give Mommy a heart attack by putting you on a motorcycle?" At the sound of her name, the toddler raised her head, blinked solemnly at both men, and lay her head back down on her daddy's shoulder, all while keeping her thumb tucked firmly in her mouth.

"I guess that's a 'no' vote," said John with a shrug. "Thanks, anyway." His eyes drifted back to the Ducati. "But do you mind if I look her over?"

"Feel free," said Mark.

As the soldier studied the bike, squatting beside it and asking the occasional question, Mark studied the baby. At first glance, she seemed to be all soft brown curls and big blue-gray eyes, but you could tell that she looked just like her daddy. The bone structure was identical from the nose on up. (He couldn't tell much about the lower half of her face because she still hadn't taken the thumb out of her mouth.) Unwillingly, Mark's thoughts went to the baby he'd just lost, and he wondered whether the child would have looked more like him or like Addison.)

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"

John straightened up. "I think you're about to meet my other kids."

About ten feet away from the parking lot, two girls were coming, the little one tugging the big one forward with one hand and waving some kind of flower in the other. As they got to the parking lot, the little one let go and ran ahead, yelling, "Daddy, Daddy, I got a danna-lion for you."

"Kaitlyn! No!" barked John sternly before turning to Mark. "Sorry."

Unsure as to an appropriate response, Mark merely shook his head.

John squatted down again, this time to face the excited three-year-old. "Kaitlyn, you know the rule. You're supposed to hold Emily's hand in the parking lot."

"Sow-wy," she replied contritely, all but batting her eyes at her father. Then she waved her hand energetically. "I gotta danna-lion for you. You gotta make a wish." She thrust a sorry looking dandelion straight at his face. Not only had it gone to seed, but most of its puffy white crown had apparently fallen off.

"She **ran away**," complained the older girl in her best don't-blame-me voice as she walked up to the men.

"It's okay this time, Emily. But next time, try harder to hold on to your sister." John nodded to his oldest before taking the offered dandelion. "This is for me?" he asked in a voice filled with wonder. "And I get to make a wish with it?" Kaitlyn nodded vigorously. "Will you help me blow?"

Once the wish had been debated (chocolate versus vanilla cupcakes for dessert) and the remaining lonely seeds had been blown away, Emily spoke up again. "Mommy wants to know what's taking so long with the briquettes."

"Ah, that sounds like my cue." said John, rising. "Girls, say hello to Mr. Sloan. He was just showing me his motorcycle."

Both girls said hi, and Mark returned their greeting, wondering whether he should try to make conversation. It had been a while since he'd spent any serious time with the younger Shepherd nieces and nephews, and he wasn't sure what the hot topics were for that age group. "So, you guys know any good SpongeBob stories?"

The three-year-old gave an enthusiastic squeal and immediately started chattering (between giggles) about something SpongeBob and Patrick had done, but the seven-year-old simply rolled her eyes before turning to her father. "Mommy said to tell you that Grandma and Grandpa will be here soon."

John turning to Mark and stuck out his hand. "Thanks. You've got a great set of wheels there. Maybe someday we can ride together."

"Any time," replied Mark. He took a look around. Still no women, and his stomach wasn't getting any quieter about the lack of food. "It's been a while since I've been here. Any idea where the nearest restaurant is?"

"There's a food stand down that way," John said, pointing west. "But for a real restaurant, you'd have to go to the food court over in Killington."

"Thanks." Mark nodded and started for his bike. Trolling for a lunch companion and a little flirting would have been fun, but he was hungrier now for food than for flirting, and Killington was only ten minutes away. Besides, Killington would have women in it.

"Hey, Mark. Why don't you come with us?"

Mark looked up, startled. A family picnic wasn't what he'd had in mind. "No, thanks. I don't want to impose." He fastened the top of his jacket. "I'll be fine."

"It's no problem," insisted John. "It's a potluck picnic. Lots of family, lots of food. And my wife's a great cook." He hoisted the bag of briquettes under his free arm. "It's the least I can do after you offered to let me ride your bike."

Mark wasn't quite sure how it happened, but he somehow found himself at the Velez picnic. The experience was . . . not what he'd expected. Mark had assumed that as a non-family member, he'd be the proverbial fifth wheel, but the other Velez family members gave him a welcome that was as genuine as it was casual. Once John explained the circumstances of his inclusion, he was quickly offered his choice from the already abundant offerings laid out on one of the picnic tables with the promise that even better food would be available if he waited until the folks manning the barbeques had time to do their thing. The mention of his motorcycle drew a small group of fellow riders, and they had a good time swapping stories and hints about the best local trails. By the time they'd finished swapping tall tales about their bikes, the talk turned to baseball, when Mark found himself a member of the proud majority of Yankee fans razzing the small but vocal minority contingent from Queens who were Mets fans. The high point came when one of the Yankee fans laughingly declared that one of the Mets fans should hand over his family membership to Mark, who at least had the sense to root for a winner. At that point, the group broke up because they were being called to the first lunch seating, and Mark was invited to participate in a post-lunch stickball game with the adults and the teens.

Mark was tempted-briefly-to stay. The food and the conversation were both very good, and it wasn't as if he had a specific destination for the afternoon. However, he couldn't get past his irritation at the way the children dominated the conversation. One or another adult was constantly being pulled away because someone had a boo boo, or was having a fist fight, or needed a diaper changed or a question answered, or to be argued with about whether he/she/they had permission to leave the area, etc., etc., etc. Even sweet little Miss Kaitlyn of the dandelion wishes provided a disruption of her own, calling her father away for washing and a change of clothes because she hadn't made it to the bathroom in time. And the noise! Mark had forgotten that range of notes-somewhere around E over high C-in which little girls squeal when they're excited. He'd been fine with just three small kids, but this mob scene was too much. So, despite his relief at the distraction from his own thoughts, Mark had had enough of dealing with other people's children for the day. Within moments of finishing his meal, Mark said his farewells and headed north once again.

**divider-divider-divider**

Back on his bike, Mark's thoughts led him to the annual Shepherd family reunion picnics. Between Kathleen, Nancy, and Lizzie, he and Addison had fourteen nieces and nephews. Mark didn't expect Addison to follow Kathleen's example-six kids-or even Nancy's or Lizzie's respective four each. Not really. After all, she put Derek off for the entire length of the marriage on this topic, and from the bits and pieces that kept coming back to him from the night he found out about the abortion, she still wasn't ready to have a baby. He didn't have to like it, but he could accept it. And it wasn't as if they didn't have any time left. Addison still had years of fertility ahead of her, but the time they had left to make babies was limited if they didn't want to be raising teenagers during their retirement years. They needed to get the divorce over with and to talk soon about how many babies they were going to have. Having grown up as an only child, despite his frequent stays at the Shepherd household, he knew he wanted to have more than one child. Everybody deserved to have a brother or sister who would always be a brother or sister. He wanted that for his kid. Kids.

If only. . . .

Mark was not only running out of patience, he was running out of ideas. Addison's behavior made him feel like she'd tried and convicted him of some terrible crime without even letting him know what the charges were. He _hadn't_ done anything wrong-at least he hadn't done anything wrong that she knew about. Probably.

He thought he'd known all the ways in which Addison could take her revenge on a man; he'd been watching her on and off for about fifteen years. He'd seen Addison in everything from a towering rage to a whiny sulk to a blubbering mess, and he'd learned how to handle all of them by watching Derek (i.e., use as much charm and tact as he was capable of to distract her until he could dump her on her girlfriends, all of whom spoke girl). But the blond Ice Queen who wouldn't even give him a fucking clue as to what was wrong had him stumped.

Maybe he'd go back to that shrink. At $400.00 per hour, he had to be good for something.

Then Mark remembered how the session had ended.

Probably not.

A sign for the Hudson River Bridge tour caught his eye. The route was scenic in its own right, and led to more challenging terrain once he got further upstate. He smiled and gunned the engine.

He was going to have fun.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer and Author Notes:** See Chapter 1.

**Move On**

No Sad Songs for Me

Chapter 16

By the time Mark stopped to figure out how late it was and how many hours he'd need to get back home, a gloriously purple and orange sunset was spreading itself over the horizon. He'd ridden further and longer than he'd planned. Well, okay, he hadn't exactly planned how far he was going to ride, but his meandering route had brought him to a spot at least four hours from New York, and he was going to need a fair chunk of the remaining hours to get back in time for pre-office rounds. However, uncomfortable with the thought of riding in complete darkness on unlit back roads while he was tired, Mark checked his GPS for the nearest motel. All he wanted was a quick bite and a nap; he didn't have time for anything else. A four-hour nap would take him past moonrise, and that would provide him with enough light until he could reach the highway and electric lights.

Despite the tightness of his schedule, Mark was relaxed to a degree he hadn't felt in months. The long hours on the bike had tired him out physically, and the rare hours of nearly unbroken solitude had allowed him to think things through. He decided that Voloshin and Dapaah were right to say he'd been overreacting, even if they were all-himself included-wrong about the miscarriage. He had been overreacting to Addison's moods. Getting bitchy was how Addison coped when she was upset. (Damned if he knew what she was upset about, since she'd gotten everything her own way, but she'd get around to telling him the cause. Eventually.) He'd given Derek a rough time about being pussy whipped often enough whenever she was upset about her parents or her mother-in-law or whatever and took it out on him. Now it was his turn. And he could handle it. If Derek could handle it, he could handle it.

Determination and a good set of directions from the motel's front desk got Mark back to the city in time for rounds feeling refreshed. His upbeat mood continued at Sinai, where all of his patients were stable, and all but one were ready for discharge. The remaining patient, a man who came in for a rhytidectomy and abdominoplasty after he'd lost 125 pounds, was experiencing persistent arrhythmias and needed a cardiac consult. Afterward, Mark headed directly back to the office, where he cheerfully saw another five patients (two referrals and three follow-ups) almost back to back without incident. Overhearing his nurse and his office manager congratulate each other on the supposed result of the previous day's verbal spanking _almost_ irritated Mark into snapping, but he refused to let them steal his good day.

Mark had an hour and a half break before he had to be at Sinai, so he headed to the condo to shower and change his clothes before grabbing lunch. He thought about asking Addison if she wanted to join him, but dismissed the thought. He'd had the right idea yesterday when he decided to give her space. Time was what she obviously needed, and time was what he would give her.

Standing at his front door, Mark raised an eyebrow when he heard noise coming from the other side of the condo. His housekeeper had standing orders to be out of the place by eleven, and Addison never took mid-day breaks at home (a mild source of contention between them when she'd not only refused to come home for "lunch" but also ruled out nooners at the hospital and his office). He started easing his cell phone out of his pocket for a call to 911, but relaxed when he spotted a familiar redhead moving back and forth through the partially open bedroom door.

Mark's mouth dried instantly as he stared at what looked like the confirmation that he'd been right. He'd given Addison the time she needed and now she was back, looking almost exactly the same way she did on the night they'd first slept together. Red haired once again, wearing only black stiletto heels, black stockings, black garter belt, and black lace lingerie, Addison stood before the closet picking out various outfits and then holding them in front of her as she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. After several seconds of close inspection, she'd shake her head, put the clothes back in the closet, and select another outfit to repeat the process. After three tries, she found a black sheath dress that made her nod her head decisively and place the outfit on the bed. Then she turned to the closet again.

Mark let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and walked to the bedroom door. "Hey, Red," he said huskily, giving her his sexiest smile. However, the smile dimmed in puzzlement when he noticed the open black suitcase lying on the bed next to the clothing-and then the smile went away entirely when he saw Addison's enigmatic expression just before she buried herself back in the closet.

"What's going on?"

Approximately five seconds later, Addison nodded curtly as she took her head out of the closet in a gesture that could have meant hello, good-bye, or even fuck off. She laid two black pencil skirts in the open suitcase before turning to rummage through her silk blouses—still not meeting Mark's eyes. "I didn't expect to find you here. I was going to leave you a message at the hospital."

Mark's face darkened, but he folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb, reminding himself of his decision to remain patient no matter what ridiculous behavior Addison intended to indulge in.

The small sounds of Addison's ongoing packing became magnified in the silence. Mark raised an eyebrow as he saw the lingerie she had already placed in the suitcase.

"Richard Weber called me for a TTTS case in Seattle. My plane leaves in three hours," said Addison as she walked into the bathroom to grab her make-up and toiletries.

Mark nodded slowly, momentarily distracted by her response. Neither of them was a stranger to emergency surgery calls, and Addison had been called away for this kind of procedure before to other hospitals. Webber ran one of the best surgical programs in the country and probably wanted her to demonstrate the procedure to the other OBs. "How long?"

"How should I know?" she called back after a few moments of rummaging in the bathroom. "I told Sinai I'd probably be gone at least a week. Maybe more."

Mark's right eyebrow went up at that. Unless there were extremely messy complications, a week seemed like an unusually long time just to make sure a surgery had gone well; she could monitor the twins from New York once they were stable. And there were other things going on that didn't fit. Why would she dye her hair back to its old color just to perform surgery? Mark recognized the clothing she was packing—it included some of her sexiest outfits. And as for the stylized curls framing her face, the formfitting black dress she was wearing, and the way her face was made up? If he didn't know any better, he'd say she was packing to meet a lover-and that made no sense. Not only was Webber old enough to be her father, she was good friends with the guy's wife.

Mark shifted his position to block the bedroom door as he waited for Addison to emerge from the bathroom. "What aren't you telling me?"

Cosmetics and toiletries in hand, Addison tried, and failed, to remain expressionless. "What?"

Mark continued to stare.

"Fine!" Addison exclaimed, the color rising in her cheeks and her voice about a half octave higher than normal. "I wasn't going to tell you until I knew more." She stared at him for a few seconds and then said, "Wait." She turned around, went back to bathroom, and finally returned holding her brush and comb set. "I almost forgot these," she said semi-apologetically, and tried to walk around Mark to get back to the bedroom, but there just wasn't enough room. Addison backed up, squared her shoulders, and looked Mark in the eye.

"Derek is in Seattle. He's their new Neuro chief."

Stunned, Mark stood silent. After all the time that had passed, news about Derek was the last thing Mark had expected-unless it had come to Addison from Derek's lawyer. But this? Addison packing for a . . . a reunion with Derek?! It didn't fit what he knew of either of their characters. Derek still hadn't forgiven him for borrowing that stupid frog back when they were kids; he doubted that Derek would count their "borrowing" of each other's bodies for an affair as a lesser offense. And Addison? She'd spent the past two _years_ crying on his shoulder about what a bastard her husband was for leaving her alone, and now-packing sexy outfits for a reunion in Seattle? This shouldn't be happening. Besides, Addison loved him, not Derek. This wasn't happening.

But it was.

Addison took advantage of Mark's seeming paralysis to squeeze by him on her way back to the bedroom.

By the time Mark was able to turn around and ask a question, Addison was carefully rolling her skirts so that they'd wrinkle as little as possible in the suitcase. He inhaled deeply before speaking; even though simple breathing was taking more effort than it should, he wanted to sound casual. "So, uh, so what did Derek say when you spoke to him?" His voice was light and steady, just the way he intended it to be.

Addison took a second look at the silk blouse she was about to pack and turned to the closet to try again. "I haven't reached him yet. He's not picking up his cell."

Mark wasn't sure whether the news made him feel better or worse. If he knew Derek-and he knew Derek-Derek was gone. Really gone. He'd gotten an administrative job just one step away from his dream job and wasn't coming back for either of them. Two months of silence had made that perfectly clear. And yet, even though Derek wasn't answering Addison's calls, she was still packing her lingerie to chase him to the other side of the county. Derek had had broken her, and he, Mark, had been the one who put her back together after Derek left—and she was ready to leave him for Derek. Just how fucked up was that?

Well, she'd have her illusions shattered once she got there, he thought with grim satisfaction. Besides, she did have to talk to Derek about the divorce eventually, so the trip was probably a good thing after all, notwithstanding Addison's sexy preparations. He forced himself to smirk. "At least now you know where to send the divorce papers." When that remark got no response from Addison, he tried again. "Maybe you'll get lucky and you'll miss him altogether. Neuro and Maternity aren't usually on the same floor."

"Mark! He's still my _husband_. Of course, I'm going to see him."

Mark cocked his head to one side and looked at her with patent disbelief. "You do realize that he doesn't want to see you."

Addison pursed her lips tightly as she concentrated on turning a black sheath inside out before wrapping it around the rolled skirts. "You don't know that," she muttered. Then she crossed the room to her jewelry box and took out a set of pearl earrings that Mark recognized as presents from Derek from their last anniversary.

Mark found himself torn between incredulity and anger. "Derek doesn't want to talk to you," he repeated. "You're doing all this-" he waved at her and then at the suitcase, "for Derek just because _Webber_ invited you out there." He laughed mirthlessly. "Don't kid yourself, Addison. Derek hasn't wanted either of us around for a long time."

For a brief second, it looked as if Addison was about to slap him. Mark braced himself, but the moment passed without any contact as Addison struggled to regain control of her emotions. "I'm going to Seattle to perform a TTTS _and_ to see my _husband_, Mark" she said firmly. "Susan will come by tomorrow to supervise packing and shipping the rest of my things. I'm leaving my key with the doorman, and Susan will give it back when she'd done. You'll be able to pick it up tomorrow night."

Mark's eyes narrowed as he processed this new information. "So, you're moving to Seattle because your old boss told you where your husband is hiding from you," he jibed. "Don't you think that's a little premature, considering you haven't even talked to him for the past two months?"

He turned around and walked to the living room, where he cast a quick glance at the bar, but refrained. Neither Laphroaig nor Talisker were an option when he had a surgery scheduled, no matter how badly he needed to quell his whirling thoughts. He continued on to the balcony, where at least he could distract himself by watching the passing traffic.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by an extremely cool breeze, which he accepted gratefully. The muggy heat of the past few days had felt downright oppressive, and the city was due for a break. His fellow New Yorkers apparently agreed with him; the pace of pedestrian traffic had picked up to something approaching normal speed. He even spotted a couple of joggers, oblivious to each other and the rest of the world in their aural iPod cocoons, pass each other on (he supposed) their way to and from Riverside Park. It had gotten cool enough for the neighborhood runners to resume their normal activities.

Turning to face the breeze fully, Mark recognized the source of his meteorological relief. The breeze was the leading edge of a cold front, and it was being closely followed an ominously dark mass of cumulonimbus clouds riding in from the northwest. The thunderstorms probably wouldn't last long, but they would be impressive. Maybe Addison's flight would be delayed.

Mark swallowed the bile rising at the back of his throat. Addison still wanted Derek enough to follow him across the country without even being asked, even though some part of her had to know-_know_-that Derek didn't want either of them. Him. Them.

For a moment-only a moment-Mark wondered whether he was wrong, whether a trip to Seattle with Addison to ask for Derek's forgiveness could restore things to the way they were before, and then called himself an idiot for asking the question. He and Addison were a couple now, and that wasn't going to change. The real question was what he was going to do about Addison when she came back to New York. For a few minutes, Mark contemplated the future-welcoming back an Addison who continued to sob endlessly about Derek's absence-and fantasized about slamming the door in her face with a "Sorry, you don't live here anymore." Bitch!

He listened to Addison's heels clicking down the short hallway between the bedroom and the living room.

"Mark."

By the sound of her voice, Mark guessed that she was standing at the door of the balcony. He didn't bother to turn around.

"I'm not moving to Seattle."

"Do what you want, Addison," Mark growled and looked pointedly at his watch. "I have to shower and be back to the OR in less than an hour and a half." He shouldered his way past her, carefully avoiding any eye contact.

"Mark! Let me explain."

Mark stopped and stared at her incredulously. "There's nothing to explain. You want Derek. You're chasing Derek." He turned and started walking toward the bathroom. "Have a nice flight," he barked as he slammed the door behind him.

He'd already turned on the water and removed his shirt and pants by the time she opened the door.

"Mark."

They stared at each other silently as the combination of hot water and air-conditioning created a cloud that began rising in wisps from behind the shower curtain.

Addison caved first. "Please come out to the living room. There are some things I have to explain."

A raised eyebrow was Mark's only response.

"Please."

Mark shrugged and turned his back on her as he shucked off the rest of his clothing. "Derek's waiting." He opened the shower curtain, releasing a cloud of steam that had Addison stepping back hastily.

"Mark, I just spent $350.00 on my hair," she complained.

Mark looked at Addison quizzically. What the fuck was she complaining about? And then he got it. Steam. Frizzy hair. Still, why should he care?

Mark debated with himself briefly. The last thing he wanted to do was to listen to Addison sing Derek's praises, but it looked like she wasn't going to shut up unless he let her talk. He shrugged and looked Addison in the eye. "I need five minutes to shower. If you can't wait that long, you can either leave or you can join me." With that, he stepped behind the curtain. As he reached for the shampoo, he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing. And then, silence.

Eight minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with one black towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders.

"I have to be in the OR in about an hour. Will this take long?"

Addison rose from the sofa, staring at him with a look he couldn't quite interpret. Then, she raised an eyebrow. "No, this doesn't have to take long," she stated firmly. "It doesn't have to take long. At all." She started walking forward, but stopped while she was still closer to the far side of the room than to Mark.

Mark watched as, head downcast, Addison silently fiddled with her watch and then with her jewelry. Her rings. Her engagement ring and her wedding ring, jewelry Mark hadn't seen since Addison moved in.

Hands tightly gripping the ends of the towel around his neck, Mark spoke. "Since you need time to collect your thoughts, I'll go get dressed."

"No!" Addison's head snapped up. "I-my taxi will be here in twenty minutes."

"Addison."

"Mark."

Addison stared at him steadily, doing a fairly decent job of hiding (to anyone who didn't know her as well as he did) the fact that she was practically vibrating with nervous tension. "I have to go, Mark. I have to find out whether I still have a marriage. I have to find out whether there's any chance that my husband of eleven years-my _husband_, Mark, of _eleven years_, still loves me."

The muscles tensed around Mark's jawline, but he remained silent.

"Look, I know this is a longshot," Addison admitted with slumped shoulders. "Derek-Derek may not want to have anything to do with me ever again. I know this. I am prepared. I am _prepared_." Then she reached into her purse for a white envelope with the name Hamilton Lowell Winthrop embossed in the corner. Mark recognized the name of the firm that handled all of the Montgomery family's legal matters. "I've already had preliminary divorce papers drawn up. All he has to do is sign them and he's free. We're both free. But until and unless I know that's what he wants, I'm still married. And so is he."

"At least you've got some sense," Mark admitted begrudgingly. "So what happens when you come home? Is Susan moving your stuff back in?"

The look Mark couldn't interpret came back to Addison's face. "Mark, I'm not coming back."

"You think Derek's going to ask you to stay in Seattle? I take back what I said about you having some sense."

Addison closed her eyes briefly and took a big breath before opening them again. "No, I expect to be coming back to New York with Derek. His _life_ is in New York. His practice. His friends. His family. He doesn't belong in Seattle. He's just. . . ." Addison aimlessly waved her hands in front of her. "Angry."

"He's just angry?" Mark looked at Addison as if he'd never seen her before. He'd never known her to take stupid-on-purpose to this extreme. "Addison, angry people yell. They make threats. They _fight_. Derek left, and he hasn't bothered to contact either of us even once. Doesn't that tell you something?" he asked in disbelief.

"I don't know. Maybe. I don't know." She frowned at his look of skepticism. "I don't _know_, alright?"

Resolution or not, Mark had had enough. "Then tell me why I shouldn't have Susan arrested for breaking and entering tomorrow when she comes to pick up your things if you don't _know_ what's going on.'"

"Mark!"

That got her attention, he thought with a sour sense of satisfaction.

Addison's hands flew up in the air as she exploded. "_This_ is why I didn't want to tell you about Derek yet. You're fixating on the wrong thing."

Mark met her glare impassively. "I don't give a rat's ass about Derek, Addison," he said with an admirable amount of restraint, even though she could hear the yell lurking behind his words. "I'm trying to find out why my girlfriend is moving out even though she can't give me one good reason why."

She rubbed her forehead as she checked her watch and grimaced. "I have less than ten minutes before I have to be downstairs. So would you please, _please_, just be quiet for three of those minutes while I tell you why?"

Mark's eyebrow reached practically to his hairline, but he subtly shifted his stance to a slightly less confrontational one.

Addison took a deep breath and launched into a speech she'd obviously rehearsed. "I'm leaving you," she said simply. "We had a good time together—for a while. It was good. Healthy, even." Addison bit her upper lip at Mark's continued impassivity, and continued. "But it's time for both of us to move on. We had a good time together, but we've been pretending that we could have a future together, and that has to end. I'm still in love with my husband, and you're not ready to be monogamous. Let's just-."

"You're crazy," interjected Mark. "I told that idiot shrink there was something wrong." Addison's eyebrow rose quizzically at that remark, but Mark had no intention of proving an explanation. Suppressing a growl, he put his hands on her shoulders to ensure that they were talking face to face. "You're overreacting to Richard's phone call. Go to Seattle. Talk to Derek-if he'll talk to you. Then you'll come back to New York and we can discuss what comes next."

Addison shrugged her way out of Mark's hold and moved next to her suitcase and purse by the front door. "I don't know how to put it any more simply than this. My leaving is not about Derek. I already consulted a broker. If Richard hadn't called yesterday, I would have put down a deposit on a one-bedroom sublet over on West End. We're over."

"But we love each other!" burst out Mark in disbelief.

Once again, Addison wore her enigmatic expression, but this time Mark recognized it for what it was. Pity. His cheeks flared bright red.

"We were fooling ourselves, Mark." At his stubborn head shake to the negative, Addison amended her statement. "Okay, _I_ was fooling myself. I still love Derek, and I don't love you. Not the way you think you want me to. Not in a way that means a lasting relationship." Addison looked down and saw that she'd been fidgeting again with her rings and took a deep breath. She looked up. "I'm sorry. But I have to go."

As Addison reached for her purse and her suitcase, Mark found himself instinctively moving to block the front door. "I love you, Addison Forbes Montgomery Shepherd, and I will not let you walk out of here without a fight." Once again, he moved to put his hands on her shoulders, but this time she evaded his grasp.

"You love me? You love me enough to build a life with me?" she asked skeptically as she pulled up the telescoping handle of her travel case. "Then what about Charlene?"

"Charlene?!

"Charlene."

Mark swallowed, hard, while he tried to put together a coherent response—and failed. There was no point. Charlene's irrelevance to their relationship aside, Mark knew that Addison would never accept the reality that absolute monogamy was an unreasonable standard to set for any man. Just because Derek had been a freak of nature who never played around, she expected him to be the same. It wasn't fair.

"How. . . ?" began Mark, both wanting and not wanting to know precisely what had happened to blow his cover, but was unable to put the rest of his question into words.

Addison shook her head. "Does it matter? I know, and I'm leaving. There's nothing else that needs saying."

Mark briefly thought about pointing out that the last time he'd had sex with Charlene was the night he'd found out about the abortion, but knew that Addison would consider the timing irrelevant. He reminded himself that he'd known what her response would be, whether she'd found out about that night or any other night, about that nurse or any other nurse. He was a fucking idiot.

So was she.

A sharp crack of thunder interrupted what was turning into a hard-eyed staring contest.

"No-o-o-o-o," said a dismayed Addison as she hastened to the balcony and stared at the rapidly darkening sky. "No, no, no, **no**, _**no**_!" Muttering under her breath (Mark caught the word "karma" but not much else.), Addison strode to the coat closet. Within seconds, she was holding up the only coat Mark's staff had brought for her-a lined, black raincoat designed to be worn in fall, not summer. Her look of utter loathing made it quite clear how she felt about wearing something so heavy, but another loud boom from the balcony made her lay it on top of her suitcase while she fished out an umbrella from the closet.

Mark felt his anger dissolve into panic as he realized these moments could be his last chance to convince Addison to stay with him.

"Please don't do this. We can figure something out."

Addison turned around to look guardedly at Mark and then relaxed at the sight of his woebegone face. "I have to do this, Mark. We both know we can't go on this way." At the determined shake of his head she added (with an expression so strange it was hard to tell if she was smiling or merely showing her teeth), "Besides, just think about all the fun you'll have now that you can go back to picking up as many nurses as you want."

"I don't want any nurses," Mark protested futilely as Addison picked up her coat. Numbly, out of habit, he took the coat from her and held it open. When it was on, she turned around and drew down his head for a quick peck on the cheek.

"Good-bye, Mark."

Before Addison could move back, Mark grabbed her and concentrated every bit of energy he possessed into kissing her. He knew he couldn't keep her from walking out the door, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let her go without giving her something to make her remember why she'd walked in that door in the first place. It seemed to be working. Although Addison stiffened at first, she soon melted against his chest and began returning his kisses with interest.

The phone rang.

Panting heavily, Addison pushed Mark away from her. "That's Manuel, letting me know that my cab is here." She turned around and picked up her things, carefully not making eye contact. "Let him know I'm on my way down."

_Click_.

The phone stopped ringing eventually.

Mark moved mechanically toward the bedroom. He needed to get dressed if he was going to perform a surgery, and he needed to get that facelift finished before he could figure out what came next.

Maybe he could cut Derek's face out of one of those neuro journals and persuade Brendan to let him put it up on the dartboard at Hanratty's.

No.

Maybe he could cut Addison's face out of one her gynie journals and put _that_ on the dartboard at Hanratty's.

No.

He'd wait.

But in the meantime, there was a new scrub nurse he'd had his eye on. A little on the heavy side, but shapely. Very shapely, with curly blond hair and a quick laugh. He'd wait, but there was no reason he should wait alone.

**divider-divider-divider**

**Author's Note Chapter 16A:** First, to those of you who are still reading this, the last chapter of "Move On," thank you. Those precious numbers on the hits counter really cheer a gal up when she's put her work on public display, hoping that folks will enjoy what she's done. And as for those of you who leave feedback-constructive criticism as well as praise-well, mere words are not enough to express my thanks, but they'll have to do. Thank you, _thank you_, THANK YOU from the bottom of my feedback-loving heart. _**Reviewers rock! **_

**Author's Note Chapter 16B:** And last, to address one of the two questions you must be asking yourself: Either "Why did she put Addison in a black coat during a New York heat wave?" or "Why did she set this story in the summertime when the Season One finale showed Addison, Derek, and Meredith in coats when they met in the Seattle Grace lobby?" *sigh* When I first started plotting this story, I looked up the airdate (January 18, 2007) of the episode (Part II of "Six Days" [3.12]) that reveals Addison's due date for the aborted fetus. So, I counted back sevenish months to allow for the time it took for Addison to 1) realize she was pregnant, 2) have an abortion, and 3) decide she no longer wanted to be in a relationship with Mark and figured I was within a reasonable timeline within the Shondaverse. It wasn't until I was more than two-thirds of the way through the story and looking for YouTube clips of the fateful Addek confrontation that I realized I probably should have used the airdate of Addison's first appearance on the show, as it is one of the show's iconic moments. But then, I asked myself, should I have used the Season 1 finale, "Who's Zoomin' Who?" [1.9] which aired on May 22, 2005, or the Season 2 opening episode, "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," [2.1] which aired on September 25, 2005? In the interest of saving my sanity-and avoiding a rewrite of all the weather references-I decided to stick with my original decision and keep the affair in late spring/early summer. Not even Dr. Who's TARDIS could enable a fanfic author to keep up with the disparate timelines of the Shondaverse.


End file.
